


Thunder

by keyflight790



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Harry Potter, But it helps a little, Disability, Dom Draco Malfoy, Dragons, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, Fire, Getting Back Together, H/D Erised 2019, Heavy Drinking, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Metaphors, Minor Draco Malfoy/Original Male Character(s), Past Relationship(s), Physical Disability, Post-Hogwarts, Post-Second War with Voldemort, References to Depression, Symbolism, Thunderstorms, Top Draco Malfoy, Violence, drarry is mfeo, love does not cure all, sex for drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-01-04 21:03:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21204071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keyflight790/pseuds/keyflight790
Summary: The storm will disappear; the rain will subside; but what's left in its wake will last forever. A story of love and loss, redemption and thunder





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leontina (Leontina)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leontina/gifts).

> Leontina, I am so excited to have the opportunity to write for you. I utilized your first prompt, and tried to get a lot of sensual touch in there. I really hope you enjoy this. 
> 
> I'd like to thank the mods for running this fest, and encouraging us all along the way. A thunderous applause to my village, my alpha, G, my beta, P, my cheerleader, A, and my final reader, D. Also, to your friend bounding-heart who answered my endless questions about you. I couldn't have written anything close to this without my beautiful support system.
> 
> Theres art for this fic [here!](https://mad1492.tumblr.com/post/190240147217/commission-for-keyflight790-of-their-fic-thunder)

Draco didn't ask for this. 

It was the understatement of the decade, he supposed. Chalk it up to the Dark Mark on his arm, or scars on his chest, or that thing with the cabinet.

He didn't ask for any of it, and yet there it was. All things synonymous with the name Draco bloody Malfoy. That, along with being son of Azkaban's favourite Death Eater resident, child of an agoraphobic mother who had whittled away into nothing. The Malfoy Manor in disarray, his inheritance gone towards reparations, sitting in the Ministry coffers. His grandfather long dead and gone, the funeral being the only time he saw his parents cry. 

Draco'd done enough crying for the both of them. Might as well add that to the list, sobbing little Slytherin. Not that he had cried in recent months, and if he had, his tears would be more vodka than water.

Muggles knew how to make their liquors, that was for sure. Vodka, and gin and, oh yes, whisky. Not the shite Firewhisky that burned your throat, but Muggle whisky that felt like smoke, that left you heady and warm and strong. 

It was what he was downing currently, in a lowball that had some disgusting smudges on the rim. He couldn't be picky. He'd already been kicked out of his local, had to hoof it down the street to another darkened pub, thankful it was still open and that it carried his brand of choice.

"'ts 'bout time, 'tcha think?" Nott slapped a hand on Draco's shoulders. He had just returned from the loo, a white-ish powder crusted around his nose. 

"Looks like it's just getting started." Draco rubbed his own pointy nose, wondering if a hit of whatever Nott just took would mellow him out or sharpen the pain. Loo drugs were sometimes unpredictable.

Nott settled next to him in the booth, letting his head drop to the crook of his elbow. _Mellow_, Draco thought, and his arm itched. It'd been a while, at least forty-eight hours, since he'd used anything, not that _that_ was the reason he wanted to scratch his forearm until it bled.

He downed another shot and put those thoughts to the back of his mind. Those were daytime thoughts, not ones to dwell on when night was circling around him, drowning him in watered-down whisky and cigarette smoke.

By the time the bartender announced last orders, Draco had swallowed at least two more shots. Maybe three, if he counted the glasses surrounding Nott's outline on the table, head tucked into his arms, droplets of drool collecting in the corners of his sleep-opened mouth. 

Draco elbowed him—hard enough that he released an abrupt snore before prying open his eyes—and surveyed the place.

"Why's it so bright?" Nott squinted into the halogen bulbs.

"Bar's closed," Draco answered with a sigh. "Only two, so early."

Nott attempted to stand, his legs shaking under his stocky frame. "Let's Apparate home then."

Draco nudged him again, harder this time. "Fucking Muggle bar, Nott," he chastised. "We have to walk or—" he shuddered thinking of disgusting leather seats with bits of vomit and sweat gathered in the corners, "—taxi."

"Can't walk," Nott said, slumping back down in the booth. "Must sleep."

"Oh for Merlin's sake," Draco muttered. He discreetly cast a Feather-Light Charm on his best friend, hoisted his arm over his shoulder and dragged him out of the smoke-filled bar.

Draco breathed deeply as they reached the rough pavement outside. The night felt good, a little crisp, a healthy breeze.  _ It's going to pour tomorrow _ , he thought to himself as he turned left and half-carried Nott down the street.

His flat was small. Correction: it was microscopic compared to the Manor. The entirety of his home would fit into his childhood bedroom with plenty of room to spare. It was all he could afford, and even with double shifts at the library, he could barely pay the rent most months. 

Draco considered that he could cut back on his bar tabs, or possibly the white powder into which he snorted his sorrows, but every night he found himself shaking in his apartment, craving a fix, craving to make it all disappear. He'd drag himself to the bar, to the loo, to the next party and the next, until he'd black out and wake up, hopefully, back in his flat, and if he was really lucky, back in his bed.

He deposited Nott onto his threadbare couch, yanked off Nott's shoes and pulled a blanket over his midsection. He was already snoring, so Draco poured Nott a large glass of water and placed it on the coffee table, hoping he would have some sense to drink it if he woke up during the night. 

Pouring himself a glass, Draco sipped it as he retreated to his bedroom, only a thin wall separating him from the snoring git in his living room. It didn't matter. He wouldn't be able to sleep anyway, sadly not having drunk enough for the taste of bitter liquor take him into darkness. Draco instead donned his thin, wire-framed reading glasses and picked up a book from his nightstand.

The library provided him access to a magnificent reading collection, and Draco often found himself pulled to the nonfiction section. He craved to know what happened to lives outside of his own, specifically dictators, terrorists, monsters. Where did they go after the horrendous crimes they committed? Did they spend the rest of their days locked up, like his father? Or did they reassimilate into society, start families, eventually be accepted back into the community?

He found that, of course, the harsher the crime, the harsher the punishment. For the few, the lower ranks of dangerous villains who'd committed only mildly dubious crimes, their lives still couldn't return to normal. Society disregarded them like yesterday's trash, and most found themselves homeless, heartbroken, barely clinging to life. 

There were exceptions—a collection of people who had somehow bloomed despite the dirt they were buried in. They did their time, got jobs, married partners and birthed children. They died of old age, in warm beds surrounded by family and friends.

He knew that wasn't possible for him. Draco had been cast out of the wizarding world for over a decade, his only remaining friends being Nott and Pansy. There were times when the darkness became so heavy that he wished he had gone to Azkaban with his father, that the cold bars and the wet floor and the bare cot would be better than this. That maybe insanity, or even death would be better than this.

The words in his book started to get fuzzy, black lines merging with gaps and spaces and margins as Draco finally drifted off to sleep.

\----

He awoke the next morning to rain pelting his window and the smell of crisp bacon creeping under his door. Nott's hangover breakfasts were sometimes the highlight of Draco's week.

Draco pulled on his robe, slid into his slippers and walked the fifteen-ish steps from his bedroom door to the kitchen. He could hear Nott humming, some nursery tune Draco remembered his mother singing to him when he was being tucked into bed, and his stomach churned. He gripped the wall, balancing himself for a moment. It'd been years since he'd thought about her, at least the version he remembered from his childhood. Instead of perfectly coiffed hair and elegant dresses, his mother resembled a ghost now, hollowed cheeks and tangled strands. Her skin was ashy, her bones frail. He wondered how long it had been since she'd seen sunlight.

After a moment, the feeling of sickness passed and he was able to step fully into the kitchen. Thank goodness Nott had switched from nursery rhymes to Celestina—an upbeat diddy about a man who thwarted her after a tryst. 

Draco pulled a plate out from the cupboard and filled it with runny eggs and slivers of bacon along with some toast and settled into a chair. Nott passed him the salt as he too joined Draco at the tiny kitchen table. 

They didn't use magic that often anymore. Their wands were still on them most of the time, but they barely pulled them out. It made sense; they both worked in Muggle jobs, went to Muggle bars and restaurants and shops. The last time Draco had entered Diagon Alley, in full Glamour of course, it was just to pick up his mother's medicine. The herbologist refused to owl it to the Manor, as the peacocks had become most vile to the owls in Father's absence.

The food felt warm and solid in his stomach, calming his bouts of nausea left over from the night before. His head started to feel less foggy the more he ate, and he almost found himself humming along with Nott as he spooned another helping of eggs onto his plate. 

Then he glanced at the daily newspaper, the Times, skimming the cover as he crunched on a soggy buttered bit of toast. His heart sank as he read the third headline down.

**LOCAL VILLAGE CHARRED BY POSSIBLE LIGHTNING**

It wasn't the subject that made his heart plummet. It was the accompanying picture. A grainy image of a woman standing outside of a home, the roof burned to a crisp. The walls were barely standing, covered in dark char. But the thing that caught Draco's attention was the glass in the windows.

It was melted.

"Not lightning," Draco murmured, dropping his fork with a loud clang. "Not lightning at all." 


	2. Chapter 2

Draco Apparated to a tiny village outside of Bristol in the same jeans he had worn the night before and a cleanish grey t-shirt, slack against his pale, thin chest. He should have showered; his hair still smelled like ash and his jeans had stains from whatever liquor he drank last night. Not like it mattered; no one would recognise him. It was just a Muggle village after all. 

It wasn't hard to find the row of houses that had been destroyed. Crime scene tape was strung all about, coppers going in and out of the scene with black vests and black trousers. 

He surreptitiously flicked his wand, converting his blue denim to black, and his grey shirt to a blue. He yanked a bit of the police cordon from the ground and transfigured it into a matching stab vest, disguising himself convincingly as a police officer.

Crawling under the police cordon, Draco assimilated into the crowd, blending in with the other officers and reporters as he approached the first house in a long line.

The A-line roof was charred, with the top point missing completely, exposing the top floor. A bit of red slate was still visible at the edges, and Draco wished he could Summon a piece to take back to his flat for further study.

Still, it wasn't the half-burnt roof that had pulled him to this town on a dreary morning. It was the windows, and more specifically, their glass.

Draco stepped up to the closest one, a four-paned framed window, and peered into a homey kitchen. The wood surrounding the window was burned black, cracked and sooty, spots of it raised into a checkered pattern. It reminded him of scales, rough and dry, and Draco ran his hands along the bumpy texture. The wood gave him a flashback, a memory from long ago, and he quickly shook his head, trying to shakethe image from his mind.

The window panes, which he assumed were previously strong and sturdy, were now melted, drooping at the edges with small pockets of air throughout. They looked like they'd been torched before succumbing to the thick morning air. Melted, then cooled quickly by the elements.

He glanced around, making sure he was unobserved, and, with his wand tucked securely in his hand, Draco sliced the window from the wall and cast a quick  _ Reducio _ . Once the minimised window was secure in his pocket, Draco scanned the area again.

A pair of green eyes caught his from across the yard.  _ Fuck. _

It had been at least two years since he looked into those eyes. Since he had found warmth and trust and comfort behind wire-framed glasses. 

Potter. 

In his Auror robes, standing out like a sore thumb. Not that the robes were the only reason Potter would get second glances at a scene like this. Draco could spot the glint of metal all the way from his post near the wall. 

He stood, frozen in place, as Potter walked briskly towards him, unable to Apparate without causing a scene, unable to run without looking like a suspect. Unable to breathe as a flood of memories cascaded through his mind, of missions and laughter and late-night glances. Of messy hair draped across a white pillowcase, highlighted by only the gleam of the Harvest Moon.

He had never seen Potter's newly fashioned arm up close, however; metal muscles and metal wrist, and metal fingers reaching cold metal points. 

"Draco," Potter spat as he approached, his eyes shifting warily from Draco's own to the missing window he had so precisely cut out from the house. "Taking a souvenir?"

"None of your business," Draco snarled. He instantly regretted rewearing his soiled jeans, now acutely aware of the whisky and ashtray stench radiating from his body. He wrapped his arms around his waist, hoping to deflect any conversation about the smell.

"It is, actually." Potter motioned up and down his body. "Hasn't been so long that you'd forget what an Auror outfit looks like."

He hadn't forgotten; he'd worn that exact outfit, proudly, for years. But he had forgotten how bloody good the sweeping black robes and the gold-lined waistcoat looked on Potter; how the collared vest barely grazed the tips of his unruly hair. Draco missed being in that uniform, where he felt so confident and in charge. He missed the way Potter's uniform looked crumpled in his fists, or in a heap of clothes on his bedroom floor.

Draco swallowed, helplessly glancing at the metal sticking out of Potter's robes. "And is that Ministry-issued as well?" he asked with a raging anger he suddenly couldn't control. It was a low blow, and Draco knew that he, more than anyone, shouldn't be ridiculing Potter's disability. After all, he knew exactly how he'd lost his arm, how it had been cursed and destroyed so badly that they couldn't regrow it. It was his fault the metal contraption was strapped to Potter's body in the first place.

Potter's eyes flared as his steel hand clenched into a fist. "You're up to something, aren't you, Malfoy?" He stepped closer, his face barely a breath away from Draco's own. 

"You'd like that, wouldn't you, Potter?" Draco spat back, not recoiling as Potter's body blocked out everything else in his line of vision. "Give you one more reason to investigate me." He closed his eyes, trying to calm himself even as a fire burned below his skin. "One more reason to hate me."

There were so many reasons for Potter to hate Draco already, and that wasn't counting any of the indiscretions that had occurred within the walls of Hogwarts. His missing arm wasn't even the worst of it.

"What do you know?" Potter growled into Draco's face. "You have to tell me."

"I don't, actually," Draco responded. He pretended to examine some non-existent dirt under his fingernails as Potter huffed into his face. "Seeing as I'm not part of the Ministry or under its jurisdiction anymore, I don't have to tell you anything."

"You're still a wizard." Potter pulled back, crossing his arms tightly across his chest. The sleeves of his Auror robes rode up, exposing more of the metallic arm, and Draco's eyes darted to it helplessly. 

"Barely," Draco responded, unable to look away from the curved ridges, the way the morning sun glinted off of the metal. He wondered if it felt like a real arm to Potter, a continuous extension of himself, or if it felt cold, foreign, a reminder of a careless mistake he could never recover from. 

At one point in their lives, Draco could have asked. He could have asked Harry for anything, and he would have done it. 

But that time had long passed, and Potter's icy glare reminded Draco more of that than anything else.

"This isn't over, Malfoy."

"Today, it is," Draco said, before turning and walking out of the barricade. 


	3. Chapter 3

It was nearing dark by the time Draco returned to his tiny flat. He had spent the remainder of the morning walking around Pensford outside of Bristol, looking for any other signs to confirm what he already suspected; that the homes hadn't been struck by lightning at all, but had instead been bombarded by a torch of fire. The type of fire that was only formed by one thing.

Nott had left at some point, leaving his kitchen a disaster of various pots and plates. With a sigh, Draco cast one of the few charms he still performed and set the dishes to clean in the sink. 

His  _ Tempus  _ reported the time as 6:30pm; barely suppertime and Draco was already longing for a hit. He deserved it; the morning had been rough, a rush out the door, an inspection in Muggle Bristol, the confrontation with Potter and his blasted arm that sent memories rushing back to Draco despite his protestations.

Plus those burned windows, that melted glass. The wave of memories that Draco had locked up in his mind. He wasn't sure he could keep them locked up anymore. It seemed the time had come to unleash his secret. Maybe tomorrow.

Tonight, he needed a drink. No, he needed something much stronger.

It was a bad habit; Draco knew his destructive behaviour was his downfall time and time again. He'd had enough interventions from Pansy to know how much he was hurting himself. 

Still, the rush of the drugs, the drink, was better than self-loathing, the darkness that swallowed him whole. The last time he had fallen off the cliff into a sea of depression, he had barely escaped with his life. He had the scars to prove it.

So did Potter, if he was being honest with himself.

The last time he had seen Potter, his arm hadn't been covered in metal. It hadn't been anything. Just a gaping hole in his shoulder where his limb used to be. Destroyed so thoroughly by magic that it would never truly heal, forcing the Ministry to construct a titanium arm for their Chosen One.

The time before that, Draco's hands had been all over him. Twisted in his hair, gripping at his sides as Draco plunged in and out of Harry's core, driving them both to the edge. 

Their bodies had molded and curved and danced with each other like a fucking ballet, in perfect rhythm, twisting and turning in utter delight.

He had enjoyed their dance, even if it was short-lived. One more mess of thoughts to drink away, his old uniform and memories of their time together tucked in an old green box under his bed.

Seeing Potter in the field that morning, in his Auror uniform no less, had brought up some cast-aside feelings, as well as a rock-hard erection. He couldn't remember the last time he had been even remotely hard, the balance of pills to booze stifling any kind of  _ want _ or  _ need _ he might normally have. Perhaps even a glimpse of sobriety had its perks after all. 

Draco sat down on the sofa, the same one that Nott slept on the previous night, and he shucked off his trousers. He tried not to think about the sweat and drool, the possible jizz that was probably left on the cushions from his recent houseguest, and instead focused on raven hair. Green eyes. The last time before the last time he saw Potter.

_ "You look good like this, darling," Draco had murmured into Harry's ear. He'd been wearing his damn Auror robes that day as well, and Draco was too anxious to pull an orgasm from Harry's trembling body to even make it to his bedroom, let alone fully undress. _

_ Harry had grinned unabashedly, open and pure. He was on his back, his robes still draped around his shoulders, but his trousers were pulled down, cock exposed. Harry was helplessly fucking himself on Draco's fingers on the couch and Draco had wanted to stay composed. He had wanted to show just how unaffected he was by the fact that Harry looked so damnably good in his uniform, how wonderful it had felt plunging his fingers into his tight core. But then his eyes had focused on Harry's, and the piercing green had ripped a sob from his throat. _

_ "Fuck, Draco." Harry had bucked against his palm, Draco's fingers dancing against that spot, the one that made Harry curse and moan, and call Malfoy "Draco," or sometimes "Sir." _

_ "Oh fuck," Draco had sighed. He slid his fingers out and filled Harry with his hard cock, plunging deep into him while Harry thrust into Draco's fist. "Gods, yes, pet, so good for me." _

_ He had kissed Harry, hard, until the only thing he could breathe was Harry's breath, and the only thing he could feel was Harry's body, writhing beneath him. Once Harry had climaxed, Draco had come so hard that the world twisted out of view and all that existed was sweet, sweet silence. _

The memory, or perhaps the fact that his fist was running rapidly along his length, pushed him over the edge. 

He came in long spurts, coating his chest and his fist with pearly white, Potter's blasted name escaping his throat in a moan. So much for silence.

Draco wiped his come haphazardly onto the sofa cushions, adding to the disgusting array of fluids the furniture already held. No _Scourgify_ was strong enough to erase regret, but he cast one anyway. 

He should toss the couch, but he couldn't afford anything else. Just one more example about how his life had gone to absolute shit since leaving the Aurors.

And now he needed to leave his flat; the walls were suddenly too close, the air too stifling, the sofa too disgusting. He made sure to take a shower this time, changing one pair of jeans for another. Not that it mattered; this denim would end up just as soiled as the other pair, especially with the activities he was sure to get up to. 

Or who was surely going to get into them. 

He walked to the pub, the one where he knew his dealer would be, curled up at the bar with a beer in one hand and whatever substance he craved in the other. 

It was well after 8pm at this point, a perfectly acceptable time to be blitzed at a bar. He had considered calling Nott, but he hadn't wanted to lug him home again, and he certainly didn't need the distraction while searching for his second need of the evening: a bit of silence.

Maybe he'd be able to save a bit of coinage in the process.

As predicted, his dealer, a man in a black leather jacket who they simply called 'Ace', sat at the fourth stool, looking up and meeting Draco's stare as soon as he walked through the door. It took Draco ten steps and one jerk of his head to get his dealer outside and pressed up against the rough stone of the exterior bar wall. 

"Handjob for a hit?" Draco murmured into the dealer's ear. 

"Mmm." Ace considered the proposition. "Upper management doesn't take spunk as payment anymore."

Draco raised his eyebrows. "Surely we could work something out?" He rubbed his dick against the man's thigh. Not that he was hard. Still, a little tease never hurt anything.

"Mmm," Ace mumbled again. Draco took it as an invitation, letting his hand drop to the front of his dealer's trousers. Cupping Ace's half-hard cock through layers of fabric, Draco leaned in again. 

"Or I could swallow you down for an eightball?" His fingers gripped harder at the fabric, and he licked the lobe of Ace's ear. "See how far your cock can slide down my throat."

Draco found himself almost instantly on his knees, two hands gripping his shoulders. He opened his mouth and shut his eyes, wishing for just a glimpse of silence. 


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning Draco awoke to a sharp thudding in his head, rain beating down on his window, and someone banging on his door. 

He willed the knocking to go away, pulling his pillow over his head, but it only continued, louder and louder, as if charmed to snake its way through his tiny flat and into the caverns of his ear. 

Finally, when the pounding at his door became louder than the pain in his head, Draco pulled himself from the comfort of his mattress. He yanked a shirt on and tugged a pair of joggers up his hips before making his way to the front door and flinging it open.

"Whatever the hell you want better be bloody...Potter?"

Potter stood there, hair wet and plastered to the side of his face, glasses fogged and covered with droplets of rain. A bolt of lightning crackled, lighting up the sky, and Potter's eyes bore into Draco's as he was drenched in the onslaught of the storm. 

"You're a hard wizard to track down." Potter's voice was low, like the deep roll of thunder, and Draco swallowed a gasp that threatened to escape his throat.

Of course it was hard. He was barely a wizard, just barely a ghost of his former self. His flat was recorded under a different name, even. The people at the library called him David.

"Congratulations, you found me," he spat, unmoving from his doorframe. A previous version of himself would have flung open the door, invited Potter in for tea and crisps. But they weren't partners anymore. They weren't friends. 

"Can I come in?" Potter asked, motioning to the rain slushing down, drenching his shirt tight against his chest. His trousers were soaked, his boots muddy.

"Why, so you can accuse me of being up to something?" Draco sneered, and another bolt of lightning shot across the sky. The rain was falling harder, spilling into Draco's foyer, drenching his welcome mat.

"You  _ are _ up to something," Potter growled. His hand, metal and slick from the rain, grasped at the jamb of his door, threatening to crush the soft wood to bits. "You think I don't know you anymore? That I can't see behind your retorts?" He lurched forward, until his wet nose was practically pressed against Draco's. "I've been on my knees for you, Malfoy. I know how you taste. You can't hide from me."

With that, Potter turned into the storm, rain and darkness swallowing him in thunderous rolls. 

Draco slammed the door and cast a Drying Charm on his pathetic entry mat. He slumped onto his sofa, cringing again at the disgusting mess that covered the cushions. 

His entire body was shaking; who did Potter think he was, tracking him down, accusing him of being up to something?

As if he had a choice. If he could just wave his wand and make it all go away, he would. But a dragon doesn't just disappear into a puff of smoke.

The storm continued to pelt against the outside of his flat, and Draco wondered if he could chase his morning headache with a gulp of whisky. Instead, he set the kettle to boil and went about making a cup of Earl Grey. 

Admitting he had a problem was the first step after all. And a dragon on the loose was a bit of an issue. 

Draco was almost positive that's what it was. Dragon's fire was the only thing he'd ever seen melt glass like that. It'd been years since he'd seen it, but one didn't just forget the first time they saw a dragon.

The tea warmed his throat as he settled into his grimy couch and let his mind drift back to that day when he was only ten years old. When he realised what being a Malfoy truly meant. 

_ The leaves were crisp on the ground, the first signs of Autumn making their annual appearance. Lucius had Portkeyed the pair of them to a valley in Romania, right outside of Zemeș. Draco pulled his scarf tighter around his neck as he followed his father, long strides through the canyon following the path of a deep, curving river. The river had finally opened up into a lake, and Draco peered across the clear blue surface. _

_ "Father, what are those boulders?" He had pointed his finger to mossy mounds that seemed to be moving across the lake. _

_ "My boy, those are no boulders," Lucius had said, looking down on him with a warm smile. "They're dragons." _

_ That was his first glimpse at what could have been his future. As they walked closer to the beasts, Lucius explained how Pytho himself had gifted his lineage with an amazing ability. _

_ He was an Ingemiosensus, which gave him more than the ability to communicate with dragons. _

_ Draco could hardly contain his excitement. He had wanted to walk right up to one and say hello, and hear what a dragon sounded like in response. Would they say hello back? Would they have an accent? Would they roar and let him climb on while they rushed into the sky? No broom could possibly suffice after he rode on the back of a dragon. _

_ The boulders took shape, and Draco was able to see the beautiful colours of each dragon scale, their long tails and ferocious teeth and the spikes that trailed down their spines. He could see the muscles in their wings, the anger in their eyes, the puffs of smoke billowing out of their noses. _

_ He wasn't scared like he probably should have been. Instead, he went to rush towards the beasts, only to be yanked back at the last minute by strong hands around his collar. _

_ "Patience, young Draco," his captor said in a low baritone. He recognised the voice instantly. _

_ "Grandpa!" Draco grinned, spinning around and wrapping his arms around his grandfather's stout frame. "Are you here to introduce me to the dragons?" _

_ His grandfather smiled down at him. "I am indeed, but not in the way you think." _

Draco poured himself another cup, remembering how his grandfather had walked them around the field, how he had shown him how to use his newfound gift. They had spent three days there, camping under the stars, waking up to the thundering claws of the dragons taking flight and looking for their first hunt of the morning.

It had been one of the best times in Draco's life. And one of the last times he saw his grandfather alive. Dragon Pox claimed him before Draco turned thirteen. They never discussed their abilities during his visits to the Manor, and to Draco's knowledge even his mother never knew. They only discussed dragons when they visited Romania, and they only visited Romania when the ground was covered in leaves of gold and orange and red.

He hadn't been back to the valley since his grandfather's funeral. Especially not after the bloody Mark was ingrained into his skin. Everything was too risky after that. The Dark Lord took up residence in his home, and Draco did all that he could to not reveal his family secret. 

It wasn't the last time he had seen a dragon, though. Fourth year. Triwizard Tournament. Bloody Potter and that bloody golden egg, and did the idiot really think he could outfly a fucking dragon? They have wings too, you specky git. Actual wings, and talons and tails and don't even get Draco started on their murderous teeth. Potter was practically dangling himself in front of the Horntail, a delectable morsel just begging to be swallowed. 

Draco had spent half the match wanting the dragon to swallow Potter whole, and the other half begging the dragon to sod off and leave the stupid Boy Who Lived in one piece. Dragons were relentless when they though their eggs were being taken from them, however. Draco had just barely convinced the beast that the egg was fake when Harry had dived out of its way. 

The git lived, and at the end of the Tournament he brought the Dark Lord back. As he stared at the Mark on his arm, Draco wondered if he should have let Potter burn. 

And then a glimpse again, more than ten years later. He was certain of it now, after seeing the town with its melted glass and burned roofs. A dragon flying overhead as they had battled outside of Wiltshire that fateful day, metallic scales across a crisp blue sky. Draco's distraction in seeing the creature had lead to the destruction of Potter's arm, to the acquisition of his own metallic scales where beautiful skin used to be. 

That day, Draco thought it had all been his imagination. Surely a dragon wouldn't be flying where Draco, an Ingemiosensus, could see it. Where he'd be so distracted watching a gigantic beast tear across the sky that he missed the hex from that smuggler, Brooks, flying straight for his heart. So distracted that his partner had to fling his body in front of him and contain the hex with his own skin, his own bones.

It was Draco's bewilderment that caused his distraction, and Draco's fault that Potter lost his arm. For that, he knew Potter would never forgive him. And that he would never forget that day in the field.

Draco had never wanted to hurt anyone. Not that day, not that decade. Not even when he purchased the charmed necklace that landed in Katie Bell's hands. Not even when he pathetically tried to kill his Headmaster. And certainly not that day, and not the man he loved. Might have loved. 

He quit the Aurors that evening. If a fucking reptile in the sky could distract him from hexing wands, he didn't deserve to serve the Ministry. If he could harm his partner by his lapse in concentration, he didn't deserve Potter.

Pansy had got him the job at the library after that, when she found Draco whoring himself out on the streets. He'd been desperate for food, but not desperate enough to beg. Besides, he had a service to offer, and could make ends meet. 

Still, he promised Pans he'd stay sober during working hours, and after his first paycheck he secured the tiny flat. His nights were his own, but his days were spent shelving books and running the counter.

Speaking of, Draco hopped in the shower and scrubbed the night and ridiculous morning from his skin before donning a raincoat and sludging through the London streets until he arrived at work.

The library was practically empty when Draco arrived. He spotted a couple getting off in the corner, a bloke with his nose in the latest Grisham novel, and a tall brunette hidden behind a large stack of books. The girl reminded him of Granger, the way he would sometimes see just the top of her hair behind a mess of parchment and texts. 

He spent the afternoon cataloging a new shipment of paperbacks, trying to find a steady rhythm between tagging and entering long lines of numerical digits into the computer. That had been the hardest part of his position. Learning Muggle technology had not come easily to him. Now, though, he could enter the numbers without even looking at the keypad.

Every once in awhile, he'd scan the space, making sure none of the patrons needed his help. No, that wasn't it. He felt something. Someone. Staring at him. But every time he checked, no one was meeting his eyes. The couple were still going at it, the bloke still enthralled with his book. The brunette's stack had seemed to have grown larger, only her hand filled with pen and paper visible from Draco's desk. 

Still, Draco couldn't shake the familiar feeling he was being watched. Even after he shooed the couple out, threatening the horny bastards with a spray bottle of water; even after he helped the brunette check out no fewer than ten periodicals on the Seven Years War. 

As he was switching off the lights and locking the front doors, he caught a glimpse of green in his peripherals. 

"Stalking me again, Potter?" he called into the evening, knowing very well he'd get a reply.

"Not stalking. Taking an interest."

"Is that what you're calling it." Draco smirked, turning the key in the lock and shoving the ring into his pocket. He turned to his left, his eyes levelled at the bloke who had been enthralled with Grisham. "You can lose the disguise already."

The plain bloke morphed back into Potter, scar, metal arm and all. "Pity I didn't find out if Grisham's character was guilty or not."

"He's guilty." Draco sneered. "They're always guilty." He glared up at the darkening sky. The clouds were thick, threatening yet more rain, and Draco yearned to be home at his pathetic flat with his kettle and the remainder of his drugs from last night's pull. He turned, heading towards his home, and wasn't surprised to hear Potter's heavy footsteps behind him on the pavement.

"Malfoy, we need to talk."

"How long have you been following me?" Draco asked over his shoulder, not slowing his pace. 

Potter huffed behind him, almost running to keep up. "Since Pensforth. Since you stole the window from that home. From my case evidence, I might add."

_ Fuck. _ Draco turned on his heels, stomping towards Potter until their chests were practically pressed together. "That was two days ago."

"Yes." Potter stared at the ground, at the growing clouds, anywhere but Draco's face. 

Draco wanted to slap him, wanted to pull his chin and force him to look. "So you saw. Last night."

Potter swallowed, and Draco watched as the trajectory of his Adam's apple bobbed along his throat. Then his green eyes met Draco's grey, just as a bolt of lightning crashed from the storm-ridden sky.

"Yes, I saw."

A clap of thunder and then Draco was snarling into Potter's wide-eyed gaze. "You watched me drop to my knees, you dirty creep. Hiding in the shadows, watching my shame."

"No, I—"

"Bet you think I deserve it, hmm? After all I've done to you."

"I don't—"

"It doesn't matter, Potter. I'm disgusting. You know that now," Draco spat into Potter's face, before turning his back on the git, another bolt lighting up the dark London sky. 

"Draco, don't you dare walk away from me again."

He didn't turn back. He could still hear footsteps following him, and Draco knew no matter how quickly he walked, Potter would follow. He knew where he lived, after all. 

When he reached his flat, he left the door open, allowing the storm's first drops to collect on his mat. He lit the hearth with a match and sat near the flames, warming his skin with the first tendrils of heat. 

It was only a few moments before Potter burst through the opening, slamming the door shut. The storm whirled on as Potter situated himself on the threadbare rug opposite Draco. 

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" he asked, barely a whisper over the crackling logs.

"I'd rather not."

"You used to."

"I used to do a lot of things, Potter." Like kiss you, and fuck you, and love you. Things Draco couldn't do. Not anymore.

Potter scooted closer, until their knees were touching, and Merlin, Draco wanted to press into that touch. He wanted to feel Potter's skin against his own, wanted to smell, and breathe, and taste Potter again. But he couldn't. He didn't deserve to.

Instead, he set his face with an impassive stare, and balled his fists into his lap. His heart was racing, though, and he tried to breathe through his nose to calm his nerves.

"And what are you doing now?" Potter asked. His hands were flat on his thighs, one metal and one soft skin, splayed out as if they were itching to touch something. To touch him. "You owe me an explanation, Draco. I haven't seen you in two years, and then you show up at a crime scene. My crime scene." 

He shook his head angrily. Draco knew Potter wouldn't relent until he told him. He always had been persistent. He would not stop until he had his answers.

Draco closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His father would surely be rolling in his cell knowing he was spilling his family secrets, especially to one of the Dark Lord's enemies, Harry Potter.

"Fine, but you cannot tell anyone." He waited until Potter tilted his head in agreement before continuing. " You know how you're able to communicate with snakes?"

Potter nodded, his hands shifting closer to his knees than his thighs.

Draco closed his eyes, and readied himself to betray generations of Malfoys to a specky git. Twisting his fingers together, he finally let the truth slip out of his mouth. 

"Well, I can do that too," Draco huffed into the warm air of his flat. A clap of thunder erupted outside, shaking the window panes, and for a moment, he thought that was that. The ceiling would collapse, the gods themselves would smite him for revealing his secret.

But then the thunderous roll subsided, and the only sound in the room was the crackling fire, and Potter's surprised gasp. 

"You're a Parselmouth?" Potter spat, and when Draco opened his eyes, Potter's mouth was gaping so wide Draco could practically count his teeth.

"I'm an  _ Ingeminosensus. _ I can communicate with dragons," Draco continued, rushing it out quickly before he lost his nerve. "Like you with snakes…but with less spitting. "

"And the whole chunk of Voldemort inside of you?"

"And the dying, yes."

Potter sat, his fingers now curled sharp around his knees. Draco wasn't sure quite what to do himself. He had never told anyone about his familial gift, not even Pansy, or Crabbe or Goyle. Certainly not Nott, who would spill secrets for anything close to a hit. 

Instead, he waited for Potter's eyes to soften, for his hands to stop gripping his knees. He waited for the open gap of Potter's mouth to close, and for Draco's own heart to stop beating so strongly in his chest.

"So you can speak—" 

"Communicate."

"—with dragons."

"Yes."

"You never told me." 

Draco couldn't tell if the look on Potter's face was confusion or disappointment.

"Well, you never told me you almost sorted Slytherin," Draco volleyed back. "Had to find that out from the Weasel, rubbing it in that he would always know you better." 

Potter exhaled sharply. "That was a—"

"Secret? Yeah, so was mine." Draco drew in a deep breath. It did feel good to finally tell someone. Even if it was Potter he was confessing to. 

Potter's hands unclenched and fell into his lap, his breath returned to a steady rhythm, and Draco finally felt strong enough to explain.

"It's not the same as your Parseltongue thing. I can't just walk up and say 'how do you do?'"

Not that he hadn't tried. His father and grandfather had snickered behind his back the first time he walked up to a baby dragon and introduced himself. He had ducked just in time to avoid the whelp's fiery breath, as waves of anger coarsed over his skin.

"It's more of a feeling. An energy if you will. Similar to how Trelawney can feel the prophecies."

"You're comparing yourself to that bat? She once predicted I was going to die—"

"And you did," Draco said with a wave of his hand. 

Potter stalled. "Good point."

Draco nodded with a tilt of his head, before continuing. "So, it's an energy. I can feel their emotions like they're sitting on top of my skin. Goosebumps of anger or sadness or joy. I can push back, try and calm them, or persuade them to make a different move." His hands twisted in the air as he tried to explain. "I can send them joy, or anger them. I can try and change their minds." He stared pointedly at Potter. "Like when they're chasing a raven-haired git who's flying for their egg, I can motivate them to turn the other way."

Potter's eyes widened again. "You…during the Tournament…"

"Well, you're still alive to tell the tale, aren't you?" Draco snapped. 

"Mostly." Potter chuckled darkly, clenching his metal-clad hand into a fist.

His mind flashed with images; the two smugglers, one short and brawny, one taller than his father, protecting the paltry haul that they had taken from some local shops. Barely enough to bring them in, and yet the Ministry had sent two of their finest to take them down. 

Draco had been one of their finest up until that point; he had worked so hard to prove himself worthy of being an Auror, and then worthy of being Potter's partner. The short one, Jenkins, sent a barreling hex towards Potter and he deflected it with the simple ease that always made Draco's stomach turn, first from jealousy and then from admiration.

It was then that Draco had felt it; the overwhelming shivers of love rushing over his skin. At first, he thought it was his own emotion radiating as he stared at the man that brought him joy and happiness and peace. 

The emotions didn't belong to him, however. They belonged to the beast in the clouds, the one he had to glance up at while his world shattered apart into a million pieces.

"I thought I saw one that day. We were so close to catching those smugglers, just one more hex would have brought them to their knees. And I go gawking at the fucking sky instead of casting, while Brooks hexed your arm to bits."

Potter shook his head sharply. "You didn't know that was going to happen."

"I couldn't," Draco said, but his throat felt like it was closing, his emotions tearing into him like a gale. "I couldn't stay after what I did."

"You didn't do anything."

"Exactly!" Draco knew he was yelling. His voice carried through every inch of his tiny flat, but he didn't care. He couldn't help it. He was angry—angry he had to leave, angry it had happened at all, angry that Potter was sitting in his living room, their knees touching, and Draco couldn't reach across and hold his hand, couldn't caress his hair, couldn't kiss him.

He'd never know what it was like to kiss Potter again. 

"I didn't do anything!" Draco continued. "I just stood there and stared at that blasted dragon and let you destroy your body to protect me."

"Destroy?" Potter's voice carried over the crackling fire, his eyes full of heat and anger. "Draco, the only thing that destroyed me was waking up in the ward three days later without you there." His metal hand curled into a fist. "Ron holding my hand, and not you. Hermione at the foot of my bed, and not you."

He paused, focused on the flames rushing up the chimney, and when his eyes met Draco's again, they were filled with tears. "I loved you and you just vanished. And I'm not going to sit here and pretend that's okay, because it hurt more than losing my arm in the first place."

Potter exhaled, and when he spoke again his voice was quiet. "But I know you, Draco. I know how you withdraw from everything when it gets too hard to deal with. And that's what you did. You just disappeared. Like smoke." 

"I sent an owl," was all he could spit out. Draco's feeble attempt at an apology before he disappeared completely.

"Oh yes.  _ Potter, My apologies about your predicament. I do hope you recover. Sincerely, Draco Malfoy." _ Potter shook his head. "I thought… I checked everywhere, Draco. Maybe you were dead, or in a ditch. That was the only reasonable explanation I could come up with as to why you weren't there. With me."

"I—" Draco wanted to retaliate, wanted to scream at Potter, to tell him he didn't have a choice. If he hadn't left, the Ministry would surely have fired him, disgraced him. That he would have lost everything. 

But it wasn't the fear of losing his status or his job that drove Draco away. It was the possibility that when Harry woke up, he wouldn't want to see him. Wouldn't be able to forgive him. 

And it was easier to destroy his own life than to have someone else do it for him again.

He was a coward. But he didn't have to be anymore.

"I went at first," he said, and Draco was surprised at how quiet, how soft, his own voice had become. He felt his words shake as they hit the air and swallowed heavily before continuing. "They Apparated you to hospital and I followed, and you were...you were just lying there. Not moving, they couldn't get you to wake up. Your arm was gone, as if it never existed, and you wouldn't open your eyes, and I just… I couldn't…"

Draco buried his head in his hands as he felt the first teardrop roll down his cheeks.

"I pleaded with all the gods that day, begging them to take me instead. It was all my fault. All my fault." The tears were streaming freely now, and his vision was blurred when he finally looked up. "You sacrificed yourself for me," he said, his voice shaking, "and I didn't deserve it."

There had been so much blood, and the Mediwixen just kept shouting his name over and over,  _ Harry wake up, Harry, hold on, we're going as fast as we can, just hold on. _ Draco didn't remember breathing, his heart no longer in his chest but on the gurney he was chasing, the one that held his Auror partner, but also the man he loved. 

He was shaking, his lip trembling as the collar of his shirt dampened from his tears. He wanted so badly to cast Potter out into the rain and run to the comfort of his powder and the counter in his loo and just let everything go quiet. 

But before he could stand, escape, his body was enveloped in warmth. Harry had pushed himself up onto his knees and wrapped his arms around Draco, pulling him close to his chest.

"You did it first, you git." Harry's voice sounded so soft, caring, familiar in his ear. "The Manor. I didn't know why at the time, why you risked everything to protect me."

He thought back to that day, to Harry's face, ballooned and ashen, his eyes wide and full of fear. To the way his mother asked, how Draco said he wasn't sure. As if he hadn't memorised every line on Harry's face, every strand of hair, every glint of green in his eyes. He looked thinner, tired, dirty, but still full of determination. He would either win or die trying. Turned out he did both. 

That night at the Manor, the lie had escaped Draco's mouth before he even realised he was speaking. The wand leaving his hand had been much more deliberate. Draco had made a choice that day, the first real choice he had made in his entire life.

"I would have done anything for you," Draco admitted, his voice cracking over the roaring fire. He swallowed, trying to contain the emotions that had been bubbling over, begging to get out over their years apart. He would have, would still. 

Anything.  _ Everything. _

He would take the Dark Mark all over again if it meant that he could erase that day, their past, their present. If it meant he could hold Harry one more time.

"And now?" Harry asked. His voice sounded scared and hopeful, as if balancing on the sharp tip of a blade. 

The whole room felt hot, as if Draco's next move would either stamp out the flames or burn the whole place down. He wanted, more than anything, to be back in the days before everything fell apart. To be able to hold Harry in his arms, in his bed. To have Harry in his life, by his side. 

Draco closed his eyes, and leaned into Harry's touch. He begged, pushing his hope and his desire towards Harry, his need for forgiveness. 

It had been so long since he'd been held like that by anyone, and the fact that it was Harry,  _ his _ Harry, made his heart soar. He buried his face in Harry's neck, breathing in the scent he thought he'd never smell again, pressing into the chest he thought he'd never feel again. 

"I missed you," Harry murmured into his hair. "I forgive you, Draco." His hand rubbed calming circles into Draco's back. "But you need to forgive yourself." 

Everything in Draco's body was screaming yes. He wanted to forgive, be forgiven, put the entirety of that horrid day in the past. He gripped harder, wrapping his arms tighter, and Harry reciprocated, threading his hand tentatively into Draco's hair. 

It was cold. Harry's hand pressed against his scalp felt like ice, even though the room was warm and the fire was blazing. And suddenly Draco was hyper-aware of the metal touching him, so foreign and so  _ not _ the Harry he remembered. 

Draco stiffened in Potter's arms. He didn't deserve this Harry, the Harry he had destroyed. He didn't deserve to be held, or comforted. He didn't deserve to be loved like this. 

He couldn't do this. Even if it was the only thing he wanted to do. The guilt spilled through him, choking him like a vice. Like the room was filled with smoke, and Draco couldn't breathe.

"You need to go." His voice was harsh, as cold as Potter's arm, as cold as the rain that was still pounding outside, but Draco didn't care. He needed to get rid of Potter, get a hit, and get to sleep so he could put this entire horrible night behind him. 

"Draco don't do this. I forgive you, please, please forgive yourself," Potter pleaded, but Draco pulled himself off the floor until he was standing, towering over Potter's kneeling frame. 

"Get out," Draco said. He was already turning towards his bathroom, where the small baggie full of powder was tucked discreetly under the sink. His forearm itched, the pull of the drugs or the reminder of bad choices, he wasn't sure, but he knew he needed something.

After a long night of talking, Draco yearned for silence. 

"Draco—" Potter started again, and Draco had no choice but to turn, pull his barely used wand out of his pocket, and hex the arsehole right out the front door and into the cold, dark storm.


	5. Chapter 5

The next few days were spent in a blur of rain and drug-fueled snow. The sky didn't let up its tears no matter how many times Draco walked from his flat to the library, from the library to the pub. He spent most nights with Nott, a drink in one hand while the other hand carved a line into the loo countertop. He couldn't bear to think of anything else, of dragons or failures, of lightning and Potter. Instead he drowned himself in silence.

Until he found himself dining on another one of Nott's perfunctory hangover breakfasts. T he bite of beans on toast barely clung to the fork as he stared at the picture on the front cover of the newspaper, hand shaking as he devoured the article.

The large brass bell still looked intact, despite the fact that it was now covered in ash, but the church itself was destroyed. The grainy picture barely depicted what Draco could clearly see; panes and panes of stained glass window melted into pools of colours that would put a rainbow to shame. 

Another destruction by dragon, this time in Oxford. Draco had no choice but to go. 

It seemed he wasn't the only one who thought so. Potter was banging on his door before he could even swallow the remainder of his toast. He knew that knock before he opened the door, and swiped a useless hand through his hair to try and gain some semblance of calm before he pulled the entry wide open, revealing a wet and fuming Auror on his step. 

"Potter," Draco grunted, leaving the door wide open before spinning around and heading back to the kitchens. Thank Merlin Nott had skipped out early, leaving Draco with a messy kitchen and a greasy breakfast. He grabbed a cup from the cabinet and filled it with hot water, before dropping a bag in. 

By the time he returned to the living room, Potter was standing awkwardly near the hearth, the same one he had spilled his secrets in front of. "So you heard, hmm? Another attack, looks similar to the first," Potter began to babble awkwardly. He accepted the steaming cup, his metal hand surrounding the blue porcelain with ease. 

"I didn't hear. I read." Draco threw the paper down onto his coffee table, before giving Potter a disdainful look. "Suppose you have a grand plan where you go rushing in to save the day?"

"We." Potter took a sip of his tea before meeting Draco's glare. 

"We?"

"Robards said I could hire a special consultant. That's you."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "You told Robards?"

"That I was hiring a consultant who specialised in—"

"Dragons," Draco gritted out, staring at Potter incredulously. 

"Melted glass, actually," Potter offered a small smile before taking another sip. "The only factual connection between both cases is the curious window panes."

"So I'm a glass specialist? Is that even a thing?"

"Is now," Potter shrugged. "Could you go get ready? We've got to get to the scene before the Muggle police destroy everything."

"Fine. This is ridiculous." He rolled his eyes again for good measure, as if he wasn't headed to the crime scene anyway. "Just need to shower, and let the library know David will be missing a couple of shifts." Draco was more than aware that he was still in yesterday's clothes, his black shirt sticky with whisky and residue, his hair embedded with smoke. 

In a rush, Draco found himself under the warm spray of the shower. His mind was racing as the clamminess was washed from his body. Another sighting in only a smattering of weeks, and this one in a higher density area. He couldn't help but wonder if it was the same dragon he saw two years ago, resurfacing and terrorising small villages in its wake. And if so, why? The adult dragons he had seen in Romania were generally docile, only using their fire to keep their eggs warm. Sometimes they'd squabble with each other, but it was more common for them to use talons than fire when they fought. 

He wiped the soap out of his eyes and turned off the shower, then wrapped a fuzzy towel around his waist as he made his way back to the bedroom, expecting it to be void of any visitors whilst he got dressed.

Except of course Potter couldn't just stay in the living room. He had to venture into Draco's place of solitude, his bedroom, and of course he had to uncover the one box Draco was hoping he'd never see.

At least Potter had the decency to look embarrassed, his cheeks flushed, his hair a tangled mess as his eyes shot from Draco's half-naked form to the charred green box opened on the bed. 

"I dropped my wand and it rolled..." Potter made a vague demonstration with his hands as he avoided eye contact. "And when I bent down, well, I saw my name."

"Let me guess, the box just magically levitated to my bed, and the lid just flipped open on its own?" Draco raised an eyebrow, pursing his lips. He had almost forgotten all about it, the box he had shoved all of the accumulated items of their relationship in and marked with thick black lines spelling out  _ Harry. _

He had buried it under his bed, and some nights when he drank too much, or his sheets were too cold, he'd pry the lid off and go through the contents, one by one.

Draco didn't have to look to know what was inside that box. His Auror robes, folded neatly on one end, along with his leather wand holster and ear communicator. The other side was not as neatly packed, cluttered with the collection of their relationship. A book Potter had lent him, presents passed from one to the other, a broken quill. 

"Your peacock." Potter smiled, pulling a small glass figurine from the box. The body of the bird was an aqua blue, the feathers merging from a deep purple to a golden yellow. It reminded Draco of a sunrise over the Manor lake. It had reminded him of home, before home was a place he wanted to forget.

"You gave it to me after our first mission," Draco said curtly. He should slam the lid down, rip the bird out of Potter's hands, but it was like he was frozen in place, forced to watch his deepest secrets unveiled.

Potter laughed. "You wouldn't stop whinging about missing the Manor. Thought it would help."

"Well it did. Now can we—" Draco cringed as Potter reached back into the box, picked up bit of parchment and unfolded it carefully. 

"Is this—" Potter asked, spreading out the note so that the black ink was visible.

"Yes." It was the first note Harry had passed him, back when they were still in training. They had  exchanged a fair number of hellos and how's the weathers, but nothing more.

The ink of Harry's handwriting was still clear as day, the words  _ Robards makes Umbridge look like a saint _ scrawled across the page. Draco's own handwriting in response,  _ At least he's not covered in cat hair, _ written in clean lines right below. In Draco's eyes, it had been their first attempt at friendship, so different from the crude drawings he used to pass at Hogwarts depicting Potter's demise. 

"You kept it."

Draco shrugged nonchalantly, as if it didn't matter. As if the pieces in that box didn't encompass their miraculous journey towards friendship, towards more. And how, in his darkest moments, when he couldn't hold Harry, at least he could hold onto those things Harry had touched, that they had touched together.

Draco stared into the box full of trinkets. The last time he had indulged in going through the box, he had ended up setting it alight with flames before dousing it hurriedly with an  _ Aguamenti _ . The darkness under his bed seemed as perfect a spot as any to bury his feelings, but now he wished he had followed through with torching the artifacts of his happiness. They wouldn't erase the destruction of his past. 

It wasn't too late. As Potter watched with horror, Draco cast an  _ Incendio  _ on the box, finally turning the contained trinkets into ash. A quick Cleaning Charm removed the remains, leaving his bed as empty as it had been before Potter meddled. 

"No more box. Now leave so I can get dressed."

"But everything was in there." Potter's voice was a whisper. "Your Auror Robes—"

"Consultants don't wear Robes, you bastard. Now get the fuck out of my room before I hex the bollocks right off of you."

Draco stared at the newly clear spot on his bed as Potter finally made his exit. When he heard the door clink closed, Draco melted to the floor as one thick tear rolled down his cheek.

\---

They traveled to Oxford in an uncomfortable silence. Potter made a vain attempt at conversation as they walked to the Apparition point, but after seeing Draco's sneer, he pressed his lips together and didn't try again.

They didn't talk until they were within sight of the church. Draco glanced around and was surprised that there wasn't a single Muggle in sight. Nor another witch or wizard. They were completely alone in front of a burned down church in the middle of a busy town.

"Heavy Disillusionments," Potter said as they walked across the ash-ridden ground. "Robards thought it was best if the site remained undisturbed."

"What a concept," Draco snapped. "If only I had placed the same charms on the box in my  _ private _ bedroom. I just assumed no one would be so nosy."

He glanced at Potter, wincing at the open regret he saw behind thick frames. 

"I'm so sorry," Potter said, his voice quiet, his anguish palpable as it carried into the wind. There had been a time where Draco would have wanted to share those pieces of his heart with his partner, reminiscing on a lazy afternoon, their legs linked together as they perused the box of memories. In one moment, that potential had vanished into cinders. 

Potter continued, his eyes soft, almost hopeful. "Look, if it would help, I can show you—"

"The only thing that will help is getting this over with." Draco approached the charred remains in front of them, anxious to put the morning in the past. What was done was burned to dust, and nothing Draco could say or do would change that.

The bell lay on the ground, tilted on its side, just like Draco saw in the paper. Other than a bit of dirt, the large bell looked unharmed despite its long fall from the tower.

Every other aspect of the church was destroyed. The tower itself, which had once been tall and looming, was now barely higher than the building's burned roof. 

"What is this? Brass?" Potter said, giving the bell a small kick. It looked the same colour as a Golden Snitch, worn from the elements. Draco knew it couldn't be the same material considering its current state, but he was happy for the change of conversation anyway.

"Not likely." Draco knelt down to get a better view. "The patina's worn off around the edges, like it's been painted. If this was made of brass, it would have melted from the dragon's fire, just like the stay and the headstock. Just like the windows," Draco said, motioning towards the building. "Their flames, while powerful, have a pretty large spread."

Potter pushed his glasses up his nose, before giving Draco a blank stare. "No idea what that means."

"It means—" Draco rolled his eyes, and as he watched Potter's face fall, regretted it immediately. It wasn't Potter's fault he didn't understand the logistics of dragon fire. He took a breath, and then tried to explain again.

"It means that a dragon's breath isn't the same as fire from say, a candle or a hearth. It's not as concentrated." Draco paused, conjuring the outline of a torch in the air between them. "For example, if I were to hold this torch under a bit of glass, eventually it might get the glass hot enough to melt. It takes continuous heat in a dedicated spot for that to happen."

Draco tilted his hand, fanning the flames of the torch out. "Now when the fire is spread, it can't generate as much heat, and it will take even longer to melt."

"Like in a campfire?"

"Exactly. Because the flames are farther out, it would take longer to heat the glass. And because it's outside, the heat also has to battle with the elements, like the breeze or the cold chill at night. It would be near impossible to reach anywhere close to the temperatures needed to melt brass, or even something flimsier, like glass."

Draco removed the floating image of a torch and replaced it with the outline of a dragon. "Now dragon's fire is hotter than a normal flame. Even just a few seconds of their breath can burn wood, crumble stone, melt glass." He pointed to the bell. "That's how I know this is stronger. It's not melted." Draco ran his fingers across the lip. "The bearings wouldn't support gold. More likely it's made out of platinum."

"Or titanium," Potter added, rubbing his arm impassively. Draco's eyes darted to the metal, his heart sinking once more with the shame of why it was there. 

He nodded. "It's how I knew at the first site that this wasn't an ordinary fire." Draco walked over to the church itself, Potter following right behind.

The church probably once had beautiful stained glass windows, featuring intricate designs of flowers and saints and crosses. Now the colours all blended together, forming a melted pool of blues and yellows and reds below each pane. 

"A regular fire might crack the glass, break it into bits, but it wouldn't have melted the panels. Not like this." He pressed a tentative finger to the puddle. It was still warm, but hard, solidified in its destroyed shape. 

"That's why you took the window," Potter acknowledged. "You are an expert in glass after all."

Draco smirked. "Not glass, but fire. I had to be sure." 

"And now?"

"Definitely a dragon." Draco had never been more sure about anything in his life, apart from that one time he stared right into green eyes and lied.

Potter looked up into the sky, as if expecting to see the beast dangling there from a cloud. "Why do you think it attacked the village?" 

"That is the question." The last time Draco had felt the dragon's emotions, it had mirrored what Draco was feeling at the time: hope, passion. _Love_

__

How good it felt to be in love. Even the smallest of touches had felt like fire licking at his skin, until they were both ablaze in each other's arms, panting and gasping and holding each other through it all. And in an instant, his hands were full of cinders, the fire smothered in a single gust.

__

For him, love had led to heartbreak, and for the dragon, it appeared to have led to destruction. 

__

"And now it's burned down a church," Potter said, still staring at the sky. 

__

"Maybe it hates religion." Draco looked up as well, noticing how the clouds were forming, darkening overhead. The air around them felt charged with static, energy before an upcoming storm.

__

"Or bells," he heard Potter whisper, before a clap of thunder rippled around them. The sound must have startled him, because within an instant, Potter's hand was gripping Draco's, not letting go even after the clouds finished their rumble. 

__

Their eyes locked, and Draco could see that hint of fire, of passion, behind Potter's thick frames. Even after all this time, the smallest of Potter's touches could make Draco's skin crackle with heat. 

__

He shook off his hand with a flick of his wrist, worried that if he waited one more moment, he might not be able to let go. 

__

"We should head out." 

__

Potter nodded. "I'm starved, though. Dinner first?" His eyes were still locked with Draco's and a smile played on the corner of his lips.

__

Draco hesitated, then nodded slowly. A beer wouldn't do either of them harm, and besides, he was craving a hit after a long and tiring day. 

__

They found a restaurant in the wizarding district of Oxford, not more than a kilometer down the road. Draco grimaced, suddenly surrounded by so much of the wizarding world he yearned to forget. With luck, no one here would know him, recognise him as the ex-Death Eater that once was partners with the great Harry Potter. Draco had never considered himself lucky, though.

__

The place looked clean, respectable, and entirely not the type of establishment that would have an offering of powder in the loo, only happy wixen living out their happy, magical lives. "Let's try another one, yeah?" Draco nodded down the street.

__

Potter's face fell so quick that Draco thought he might have imagined it, before being replaced with a thin purse of lips. "Lead the way," he insisted.

__

Draco quickly turned and headed down the hill, passing a couple more restaurants before standing in front of a dive. "Here we go." He ignored Potter's obvious grimace as he stepped through the door. "Grab us a table, I've got to hit the loo."

__

He barely waited for Potter to acknowledge his statement before heading to the back of the bar and swinging open the door to the mens.

__

As predicted, a shady figure leaned against the wall, giving Draco a nod when he walked in. 

__

"Enjoying the weather?" the man asked.

__

"Was hoping for a bit of snow," Draco responded. 

__

A small baggie came out of the man's jacket. "Three Galleons."

__

Draco handed over the coins, and slid the bag into his palm. He thanked the dealer with a tilt of his head before walking over to the sink basin and clearing the surface with a wandless  _ Scourgify _ . He should really be doing this in private, but it had been a stressful day dealing with his ex-partner/ex-boyfriend, and he was craving the hit. Glancing left and right, Draco lined up the powder and readied himself. 

__

Just as he was about to take a sniff, he heard a loud bang behind him. Draco's eyes darted to the mirror and saw a bloke, short and stocky open the stall door behind him. They caught eyes in the reflection, and with a gasp of realisation, Draco shouted. 

__

"You!" 

__


	6. Chapter 6

It was like seeing a ghost, if a ghost could be a short, stocky bloke who was very much alive. Draco recognised the smuggler immediately, a blast from the worst day of his past. As if Draco could ever forget the face of a fucker who held him and Harry at wand point, who was instrumental in the destruction of everything he loved. 

"You," he said again, this time an exhale of anger rather than a shout of surprise. Draco barely had time to reach for his wand before the git took off, slinging a hex at the sinks and causing Draco's perfect line of snow to fall off the counter, as well as geisers of water to shoot across the bathroom floor.

Fuck. He could have really used that hit before chasing a criminal throughout Oxford.

The door to the loo slammed behind him as Draco tore through the bar, chasing his mark. As he ran past a group of tables, he heard Potter call out his name.

"Smuggler! Fucking Jenkins!" Draco called over his shoulder, and just like that, the pair fell into their previous roles as Aurors, as partners. 

He heard the chair screech back and Potter's footsteps gaining on his heels as he ran to keep Jenkins in his line of sight. He knew Potter would follow him.

For as short as the monster was, he was certainly difficult to chase. Draco found himself weaving through back alleys, under lines of clothing billowing in the strong wind. The storm was approaching rapidly, as quickly as Draco's footsteps pulled him towards his mark. He could practically taste the salt of the rain when he found Jenkins, back pressed against a wall, bent over and panting.

Draco didn't hesitate this time; there were no drugs, no dragons to distract him when he pressed his elbow into Jenkins' throat, forcing his face upward towards the threatening sky.

"You." It came out in a snarl as the sky ignited in a scorching blaze of lightning. He heard Potter's footsteps approach, his panting breath mingling with Draco's own, and within a moment, he could see the smooth outline of Potter's figure out of the corner of his eye. By his side once again. 

The criminal's eyes were wide with fear, his chest held up by Draco's forearm as Jenkins glanced from Draco to Potter, finally settling on Potter's arm. The first drops of rain began to pelt down as Draco strengthened his hold on Jenkins throat.

"Remember us?" A roll of thunder rumbled around them, but Draco just yelled over the power of the oncoming storm. "What the fuck are you doing here, Jenkins?"

"I was just getting a drink—" he blathered, trying to pull Draco's arm down from his neck. "Minding my business."

"Hope you enjoyed your pint then, because it's the last one you'll be drinking for a while," Potter jabbed, which made Draco smirk. He did always appreciate his sarcasm, even in the bleakest of circumstances.

"Please, please just let me go. I haven't done anything in months I swear!" Jenkins begged, his stomach heaving in and out with panic. "I— I'll do anything, just, c'mon please!"

"Anything?" Draco asked with a sneer. "Trying to bribe an Auror now?"

"I have information!" Jenkins yelled as Draco leaned his arm tighter against his throat. "About— about a clutch!"

Next to him, Potter growled. "Spit it out before I get bored."

"It's—" Jenkins tried to swallow, but Draco was pressing too tight against his throat for it to be comfortable. "Very valuable," he continued with a whine. "Almost a million Galleons!"

"Merlin," Potter exclaimed, "what is it, the Queen of England's?"

"My old partner, Brooks. He's selling it. Let me go and I'll tell you where!"

"Tell us where and you'll keep all your fingers," Potter said menacingly, and suddenly it was his hand gripping Jenkins by the scruff. "Last time I dealt with you and Brooks I left with much less." He let Jenkins see the gleam of his arm before giving him a casual smile, as if he hadn't a care in the world which way he chose.

Jenkins, on the other hand, made a very smart choice. "He's in Diagon, one of those abandoned storefronts. The sale is supposed to close tomorrow morning." His eyes darted from left to right, from Draco to Potter, in panic.

"Good man." Potter grinned like he had just been handed a spot of tea instead of the location of a high-value sale. He let go of Jenkins' collar and motioned for Draco to release his arm from his chest. 

"You're going to let me go?" Jenkins exclaimed.

"Of course not." Potter chuckled. In the time it took for fear to flood back into Jenkins face, Potter had his wrists bound behind his back and a Body-Bind Curse freezing his body as stiff as a board. 

"We're just going to ship you to the Ministry and let them decide your fate," Draco said, before snatching a button from Potter's Auror lapel. He pried it into Jenkins frozen hand.

"Off you go," they said in unison as the button Portkey activated, and Jenkins disappeared in the blink of an eye.

Draco stared at the newly empty spot for a moment before exhaling. The fucker was gone, arrested, and if Draco had anything to say about it, would be spending quite a bit of time in a cell. Hopefully right next to his dear ol' father. He felt a small weight lift off his shoulders, ashes of regret whipping into the wind.

It was such a rush, the chase, the score, the feeling of accomplishment. The feeling of knowing he'd done something good, after a lifetime of only doing bad. He felt on fire, adrenaline coursing through his veins, and for a moment, it was like he was invincible; they were invincible together.

"That felt good," Potter sighed next to him. "Like old times."

Draco flashed back to those times, when they were partners. How after a big catch they'd go out to the pub and get sloshed with the others, and then later just by themselves. After one of those times, after the pub, in an alley just like this one, how Draco had pressed Potter up against the wall and said— 

"Fancy a nightcap?"

He mumbled it under his breath, where it was barely audible. It used to be their signal, when the pub got too rowdy or it was 3am and neither could sleep. Scrawled on a bit of parchment and delivered by owl or mouthed across a crowded pub.

It was what Draco had said in a crazy attempt to get Harry into his bed for the first time. They ended up fucking right there in the foyer of Harry's flat, not even able to make it to the couch. Barely enough sense to even shut the door before Draco had him pinned to the wood, his hands gripping Potter's cock.

It meant  _ 'do you want to get out of here,' _ or  _ 'can I come over _ '.  _ 'Do you want to fuck,' _ and later,  _ 'I miss you' _ . After a while it was like saying  _ 'I love you' _ without having to say it at all, their own three words which meant nothing to anyone else, but the world to them.

"Say it again," Potter said, his voice gravelly from the run, from the oncoming rain; from the excitement of the catch or their three-word signal. Or maybe all of it.

Draco turned to face Harry. He took his hands, one in each of his own, and stared into Harry's green eyes.

"Fancy a nightcap?"

The words were barely out of Draco's mouth before Harry's lips were on his. Their kiss was hard, hungry, almost vicious. He wanted to taste, craved more than just what the kiss could offer. Draco wanted so much more. Everything they had shared before, in a dark alley just like this one.

He broke their kiss with a bite to Harry's bottom lip, bearing down hard enough until he tasted blood. Before he could hear Harry's blissful whine, he twisted them around, pushing Harry's chest into the stone wall. 

"Yes, Draco, yes, _ please _ ," Harry moaned as Draco covered his cheek, his ear, his neck with kisses and bites. 

Draco sucked on his earlobe before wrapping his hands around Harry's waist, undoing the clasps of his Auror robes with practiced ease. His mouth left Harry's skin only for an instant, yanking off the fabric and letting it drop to the dirty ground before his lips were on him again, panting in Harry's ear.

In quick movements, Draco undid Harry's buckle and pulled his hardened cock from his trousers before working the fabric down to his knees. He conjured drops of lube onto his hand, and began to tease Harry's hole with the pad of his forefinger. 

"You want this?" Draco asked, his mouth hot against Harry's ear. He could feel Harry's chest rise and fall as he breathed heavily, and when Draco nudged his feet apart, Harry eagerly arched his back in invitation.

Draco worked his finger in, curling it in anticipation of things to come. "You're so tight, Harry. How long has it been?" He bit on Harry's ear angrily, not sure he wanted the answer at all, but still desperate to ask the question.

"No—" Harry gasped as Draco added in a second digit. "No one since you." His words came out in a whimper as Harry rode Draco's fingers, his hips rotating as they sought out his pleasure.

Not possible. They'd been apart for so long, and while Draco hadn't been in any relationship since Potter, he'd had his fair share of one-nighters and dirty loo hookups. Now that he thought about it, those encounters had all been to either score more drugs, spent on his knees or working his hand, or once in the crevice of his thighs. He hadn't actually been inside anyone since  _ that day _ , when everything changed, or he supposed, the night before.

And now, his cock ached to be inside of Harry, to fill him, to unite them together. 

Quickly, he withdrew his fingers and spread conjured lube over his aching length. He sheathed it, inch by tantalising inch into Harry's core, as Harry pressed back into him, opening himself for all Draco could give. 

Draco wrapped his hand around Harry's throat, not menacingly, but securely. The way he used to do when Harry was his and he was Harry's. His other hand wrapped around Harry's erection, and soon they were both moaning, grunting, moving together. 

"Yes, Draco, I need it. I need you," Harry moaned, his voice gravelly where Draco was constricting his throat.

"I need you too, Harry," Draco murmured into his neck, into his heart. He didn't like the path he had gone down, the drugs trying to fill the void of the pain, the hurt, the heartbreak. And now he was filling Harry, while his heart was being filled again. It was as if a switch had clicked in him, turned on all the lights in the dark alleyway, glimmering as bright as the stars above. 

He had been Harry's and for the first shining moment since they'd parted, he thought Harry could be his again. 

Draco continued to thrust, to give Harry what he had been craving for the past months, the past years they'd been apart. Draco knew he wouldn't last long, the urge to empty himself into Harry too strong, and as soon as he felt Harry clench around him, Draco let go, filling him with his pleasure.

Harry was close behind, his come filling Draco's palm, his groans filling Draco's ear.

Soon, the alleyway was only filled with the two of them, barely clothed, their heavy breaths whirling in the late night air. 

He could taste the blissful silence, the peace on his tongue. This is what he had been chasing; the absence of guilt, the fullness of pleasure. The act of doing something right, with someone he cared about. 

Harry cast a Cleaning Charm on the both of them, and with a flick of his wrist, their trousers were back around their hips. Draco dusted off Harry's robes, placing them around his shoulders, before turning him and pressing his back against the stone wall. 

"Forgive me, Harry," Draco murmured into Harry's skin, into the long expanse of his throat, into the dip that turned from warm skin to cold metal. "Please, I'm so sorry. I never should have—"

"Shh," Harry whispered, his hand moving quickly to the small of Draco's back. "You're here now. There's nothing to forgive."

"I—"

"Nothing," Harry said, his voice stern in the cold night air. "We've got each other. Nothing else matters."

Draco pressed his forehead to Harry's, wrapping his arms around his waist. He breathed in his scent, remembering the feeling of him, so close. Like they were invincible together. 

He wished he could hold onto that moment for longer; possibly forever.

But then his mind turned frantic. The fear of loss, that the thing he loved would be, had already been, stripped directly from his core. He wanted it, he  _ needed _ to find it again.

But Harry was here, his arms pulling Draco tight. Draco could even feel the coldness of his metal arm against his back, his other arm gripping his hip as if he, too, couldn't believe this was real. 

A wet drop rolled down Draco's cheek, and Draco wondered if he was crying, from happiness, from fear. If Harry was crying, tears of joy or hurt. When another drop hit Draco's nose, he looked up, focusing in on Harry's smile. It was kind, and hopeful, and it made Draco's heart beat rapidly in his chest.

He saw a drop this time, appearing on the rim of Harry's glasses, and this time, Draco looked up to the darkening sky. As the rain began to swoop in, he could see the thunderclouds rolling in, one with vastly more speed than the other.

One with wings.

The dragon.

"Fuck," Draco whispered as a bolt shot through the sky, lighting up the magnificent creature. Suddenly the waves of panic made sense. They weren't coming from his soul, which was roaring with happiness, but from the dragon's. From her own heart.

Harry looked up as well, and gasped. "It can't be." 

Draco's eyes tore from the sky to Harry's piercing green eyes, the ones he missed staring into on cold and rainy nights. 

Harry's fingers were rubbing hurriedly at his collarbone. "That's it, Draco. The dragon we rescued from Gringotts. I'd recognise it anywhere. The chains are still around its neck."

" _ Her _ neck," Draco corrected. He could feel her panic, her fury. She was angry and scared, lost and frightened. Not for herself but for something else.

Draco inhaled sharply. He knew exactly what she was looking for, and mercifully knew exactly where to find it. 

Jenkins was babbling about a clutch. No single bag would be worth that much, but an entire clutch? That could go for well over a million.

"We have to go to Diagon, Harry." Draco could feel the frantic pull from the Dragon in the air, and now in his own heart. "Quickly. That arsehat Brooks has her children."

Harry shook his head. "Jenkins didn't say anything about dragons, or eggs."

"He said a clutch, a very valuable clutch, and—"

"A nest of dragon eggs is a clutch," Harry finished Draco's sentence. "But how will we get there? How will we get her there?"

Draco looked up at the storm-ridden sky, the rain rushing towards them in a fury. He squinted into the storm reluctantly, but they were out of options. 

"We fly."


	7. Chapter 7

The rain began to pelt down on their backs as the pair ran back into the dirty pub. 

"Official Auror business," Harry flashed his badge to the bartender. "We need owls…and brooms."

The bartender, a portly man with a greasy apron, tilted his head towards the door. "Head outside to the left. The post is closed, but Gerald just lives above it. He'll get you what you need."

"Thank you," Draco nodded and they headed back out into the rain. They found the postmaster's office and home easily, but awakening him by pounding on his door was a little more difficult as the thunder began to roar above them.

Finally, Harry threw a rock at his window, and when the angry bloke finally opened his door, Harry quickly showed him his credentials. 

"Help yourself." Gerald nodded towards the row of owls, their heads curled into their wings. "Two on the end are the fastest."

Harry quickly jotted off two notes, one to Robards and one to Charlie Weasley. "He'll know what to do with the whelps."

"Oh yes, Dragon Weasel. I remember how he swooped in and took care of Hagrid's stolen egg." Draco shook his head angrily. "I could hear that thing crying for her mother all the way in the dungeons."

"That's why you were spying on us?" 

"We don't have time for memory lane right now, Potter." He glanced at Gerald. "We need some brooms as well."

"Only have the one." Gerald frowned, then pointed to the Nimbus 1050 leaning against the wall. 

"Fine." Draco rolled his eyes, grabbing the wood. "But this time I'm steering." 

"Is that your way of saying thank you for the last time we shared a broom?"

"Just get on the bloody stick, Potter."

Draco gripped the broom between his palms and felt his cheeks flush when Harry wrapped his hands tightly around his waist. He nodded to Gerald before flying out the door and into the frigid night air.

The rain had thankfully slowed to a drizzle, but they could hear the sounds of thunder clapping in the distance. Draco climbed, searching the sky for the unmistakable shadow of the dragon. She was just ahead, tearing through the dark clouds in panic.

Draco took a deep breath. He pushed out the thoughts of the pub, the drugs, the failure. Instead he focused on feelings of security, of trust. He propelled these emotions to the dragon, in an effort to calm her, and in turn, get her to trust him.

The dragon didn't falter; she had been scared for too long, her eggs ripped right out of her nest by some stupid wizard, and no matter how much Draco tried he couldn't get her to calm. 

"We just need to show her the way," Draco yelled back to Harry, before ducking his head and tilting into the broom. They accelerated as Draco's heart pumped rapidly into his veins. He loved the rush of riding a broom, and it only increased with Harry tight behind him. 

He tried to push that feeling of joy towards the dragon as they rushed up beside her, their bodies on their broom so small beside her large frame. They were barely the size of her neck, and her eyes looked furious as she glanced sideways at the two wizards flying tandem.

Draco forced the broom faster, trying to get in front of her in an effort to get her to follow. He knew instantly it was a mistake. The dragon had no reason to trust him, not yet, and she blew a warning gust of fire out of her nostrils, lighting up the sky in yellow and orange. 

" _ Fuck _ ," Draco yelped as he swerved to avoid the oncoming flames. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a few twigs flare, the bright flames skipping dangerously across the wood. A wave of fear crested over him before he saw Harry gallantly pull the burning sticks right off of the broom. They cascaded to the earth, the rain and the wind torching the bright embers as they fell.

"Potter!" Draco threw Harry's name into the wind, in shock, in gratitude, before pulling back from their almost-demise, centering themselves at the dragon's flank instead of directly in her line of fire.

"I've got you." Harry's voice filled Draco's ear, louder than thunder, than the rain. Louder than the pounding of the dragon's wings. Louder than Draco's beating heart. Harry's arms wrapped tight around Draco's waist. 

He focused on those arms holding him close. On the man behind him who he trusted, who had trusted him. Who was trusting him again, chasing a dragon into the storm-ridden sky. Draco tried again, projecting the feeling of joy, of love, of security and trust towards the dragon, and he thought for a moment he had succeeded. Her eyes went wide, then a look of elation crossed over her face, her fanged mouth turning up into a grin.

Instantly, Draco was overcome with a strong feeling of familiarity, of freedom, from the dragon. It was as if every grey cloud they flew through was actually stone and they were breaking free, the rubble of rain sliding off his shoulders. The emotion reverberated across his skin, and it wasn't until Harry shifted behind him that he realised where the feeling was coming from.

"She recognises you, Harry!" Draco cried. "She knows you, she knows you rescued her! She trusts you!"

The comfort the dragon felt on seeing Harry was so clear now. It was the same feeling Draco used to have when he'd see Harry, in class, in the field. On his bed, spread out across his sheets, his hair splayed across his pillow. Harry had made him feel safe; even before they were partners, even before they left the castle. Maybe even before he gave Harry his wand, he trusted him. 

He took another chance as a bolt of lightning crashed across the dark grey sky. Draco flew directly in the dragon's eyesight, holding his breath as he put both him and his partner literally in the line of fire. With a careful glance back, Draco tried one more time to exude the emotions of trust, of comfort, to the winged beast, and this time he felt a surge in response.

Draco was confident she'd follow Harry anywhere. 

He knew the feeling.

The lights from the city of London created a soft glow in the sky, reminding Draco of the first crest of daylight. While the morning was still several hours away, he steered them towards the brilliance, a beacon in the storm-ridden sky.

As the tall buildings and arcs of downtown London came fully into view, Draco couldn't help but find all the faults in his hurriedly derived plan. Diagon Alley was a smattering of tiny streets; and even then, he wasn't quite sure which building held the eggs and the smuggler. Plus, the alley and the city itself were teeming with people, wixen and Muggles alike. There was no way he could hide the likes of Harry Potter riding tandem on a broom with his old nemesis, let alone the bloody dragon, her fury larger than the eight-foot talons extending from her paws.

He turned, twisting his hips as he looked at the dragon and, out of the corner of his eye, the dazzling man behind him. Harry's hair whipped in the wind, his glasses were spattered with drops of rain. Even in the dark, Draco could see the intensity in his eyes, as well as pure joy. 

This suited Potter. On a broom, on a chase. Facing any challenge head-on with resilience. Not worrying about little things like logistics or fear.

"Hide the dragon," Draco called out, and then signalled towards the city below. "We've got to land, but I'm not sure where." He hoped Harry could hear him over the raucous wind whipping past. 

Harry leaned in, and his arms wrapped tighter around Draco's waist. "Head to Gringotts." His voice filled Draco's ear, over the pounding of wings and the ripple of wind. "If it's big enough for her to break through, it's big enough to hold her perch."

Draco nodded, resisting the urge to ask Harry more questions, hoping he might wrap even closer around his back as he bellowed more words into Draco's ear. He positioned the broom into a dive, circling the towers' spindles before spotting the tiny hatches of streets that held the wizarding community. 

He knew Harry's Disillusionment Charm would hold as he led the dragon to the jagged slate shingles of the bank's roof. Draco was thankful for their late arrival; the windows at the bank were dark save for a few towards the back, and the sidewalk looked blissfully empty of any pedestrians. 

The dragon landed with a thud, almost knocking some loose shingles right into their broom. Draco swerved, causing Harry to grip tightly to his thighs as he struggled to remain balanced. The material crashed onto the pavement with a resounding clatter, breaking on impact. 

"That was close," Harry murmured into his ear, and Draco took the moment to wrap his hand around Harry's forearm, the steel cold beneath his skin. He had the instinct to jerk away, to release the metal arm from his hand, but instead, Draco rubbed his thumb across the metal scales soothingly.

"I've got you, too." Draco grinned into the darkness, holding onto Harry's arm, scanning the surrounding buildings for any sign of life. For a moment, the only thing he could see were the puffs of smoke streaming from the dragon's nose, but as his eyes adjusted, he noticed a different kind of smoke. Darker. Higher.

"There," Draco exclaimed, pointing a finger towards a structure only two lanes away. Smoke curled out of the stacks of a presumably abandoned building, if the state of the windows and exterior were anything to judge by. Brooks would have needed to keep the eggs warm at all times.

He tried to convey to the dragon, both in thought and in hand motions, that she should wait while Draco and Harry went to explore the location, but his expectations were low. She gave him a snide look, one that would have put the Malfoy name to shame, at the very thought that she should wait patiently while her babies were only meters away.

Draco pushed the broom forward towards the direction of the smoke, and wasn't surprised to hear the dragon's wings right behind him as they descended towards the street. As soon as they were close enough to the sidewalk, Draco and Harry dismounted and ran into the building, wands in hand.

Draco darted through the front door, Harry at his heels, and found himself face to face with a smouldering fire directly in the middle of what used to be a market. Draco could still see the shelves across each wall, although they now held only cobwebs instead of cans.

The first thing Draco felt was overwhelming fear, muffled but still prominent. He didn't see Brooks, though. His eyes stayed focused on the burning embers, on the yellow flames that were barely masking what he and the dragon above him were searching for. 

Three eggs lay at the center of the fire, the heat licking their shells, and if the fear that was coursing across Draco's skin was correct they were close to hatching. Like the tiny dragons knew they weren't secure in their nest, their mother close by with food and warmth. He could see the first ridges across the tops of two eggs, the third remaining uncracked. For now.

Draco knew it was only a matter of time before the tiny whelps broke through their temporary shells, before they'd imprint on the first breathing soul they saw. If that happened, if the whelps were born without their mother by their side, they might imprint on Draco, or worse, Brooks himself. 

He couldn't let that happen. Not after all they'd already been through. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw a slight movement in dark shadows. He could shoot off a Stunning Spell, or possibly a well-placed  _ Petrificus Totalus _ , but he was no longer used to depending on his wand to fight his battles. He'd become accustomed to using his body—specifically, his fists.

In three long strides, Draco stood directly in front of Brooks' cowering form. His fast approach without magic must have terrified him, and Draco wasted no time before using that to his advantage. 

He swung quickly, first connecting the side of Brooks' chin with his right fist, then the lower abdomen with his left. Draco then used his knee, plunging upward until it connected with the soft sack of Brooks' groin, earning him a loud groan.

It was like he couldn't stop, like the past two years of pain were seeping out of him, through his fists and his knuckles and his skin. His hatred for Brooks, for what he'd done to his partner. For the life Draco had lived without Harry, the lonely nights, the drugs fogging his brain so he didn't have to deal with all the guilt. For the nights spent on his knees, trying to forget what could have been. What still could be. 

Brooks slumped to the floor, his arms crossed over his face in protection as Draco continued to slam his fists into his pathetic form. Over and over, until his knuckles hurt, and then Harry was restraining him, pulling his wrists behind his back and whispering into his ear.

"Stop, Draco," Harry said. "He's down. He's Stunned."

Draco wiped the sweat off his brow and looked at the beaten man at his feet. He could already see a bruise forming over his cheek, and his hands were gripping at his sides in pain. Still, Brooks made no effort to move, seemingly stuck to the concrete floor in submission.

"Harry," Draco said, but his voice was hoarse. He wondered if he had been screaming as well as punching, seeking revenge from the man who almost destroyed everything he loved. Almost, for Harry was there, Harry was safe, and holding him. Holding him back. 

"Harry," Draco tried again. "The eggs. Get them outside before she burns the roof down." Brooks stayed still at Draco's feet, surrendered under Draco's watch as Harry bolted towards the burning timber. 

He assumed Harry would cast an  _ Aguamenti _ , or smother the fire with another well-placed charm, but instead, Harry "runsintodanger" Potter reached directly into flames and extracted the eggs carefully, one by one. His metal arm glinted in the flame's light, but Potter seemed unaffected by the direct heat. 

Once the eggs were out of the heat, Harry levitated them safely in the air and ran back over to Draco, with Brooks cowering on the floor. 

"The fuck," Draco said, looking from Harry's arm to Harry's face. "You okay?"

"Never better," Harry grinned. "Now grab a button from my lapel, and let's send this perp straight to Robards."

"Sure thing." Draco smirked. "Do tell my father I said hello, will you?" He grabbed one of the shiny buttons off of Harry's robes and shoved it into Brooks' hand. It illuminated with light before whisking Brooks off to the Ministry, leaving the building empty save for the crackling fire and the three eggs hovering in the air.

He had finally caught him; they had caught him together. They could finally move forward and, with an inhale, Draco stepped forward until his chest was pressed against Harry's and, with a tilt of his head, he captured Harry's mouth in a breathtaking kiss. 

Harry opened up so fearlessly, his mouth and his tongue greedily welcoming Draco, his hands threading instantly into Draco's hair. He pressed himself even closer to Draco, until the only barrier between them was the weave of Harry's robe and the thin cotton of Draco's shirt. He could feel Harry's heart beating in his chest, a soothing syncopation of life and love. 

He deepened the kiss, wanting more, craving Harry and craving to make up for all of their lost time. His mind was unfurling with all the things he wanted to do, that they could do together. On a bed, against a wall, Harry on his knees, or spread across Draco's lap. Falling asleep reading a book with Harry leaning on his shoulder. Waking up and making breakfast. Late afternoon flies around the pitch, or strolls to their favourite shops. 

It was all so domestic and beautiful, and Draco craved it. He craved it more than he had ever craved alcohol. He craved Harry more than he craved his next hit. He needed it, more of it, all of it.

He was so close to dragging Harry against the nearest wall of the shop, and hoisting him up to the lowest shelves before the sound of a crack interrupted them. The eggs were breaking. Whelps were about to be born, and Draco wanted nothing more than to reunite them with their mother. Draco was once again flooded with emotions from the darling little dragons. This time, instead of fear, it was excitement. It was love. 

He held open the door as Harry carefully levitated the breaking eggs over the threshold. The moment they were out in the darkness, the sky flooded with fire as the dragon lit a makeshift nest of branches and leaves. Harry placed the eggs into the center, surrounded by crackling heat, as the mother checked over each one carefully. 

Draco's hand slipped into Harry's as they admired the dragon inspecting her whelps, watching as each egg broke open until a tiny baby emerged. 

When the last egg cracked, and a silver little thing crawled out, its first gust of breath a ball of fire, Draco gave Harry's hand a squeeze. It was only then that he realised he was holding onto Harry's new hand, cold, and solid, and beautifully his. 

He never wanted to let go. 


	8. Epilogue

The next week was a fierce blur. 

Instead of spending his mornings with Harry wrapped in his arms, Draco awoke drenched in sweat and surrounded by crumpled sheets. His body ached. His forehead was damp, his hair sticking to his skin, to the nape of his neck. His arms were covered in goosebumps, and despite the many blankets wrapped around him Draco still felt chilled; clammy.

He wanted the sun to be shining, and the air to be warm, and to spend the morning between the sheets revisiting all of his favourite spots on Harry's gorgeous body. But the storm outside was still brewing, filling his room with a ghastly grey opposed to a sunny yellow. 

He hadn't felt like this since his last row with Pansy, when she had stolen all of his drugs and taken his wallet, when she had locked him in his flat for two full days while she tried to strip the toxins from his system. 

His head felt like it was full of mush as he tried to remember the last time he'd been clean. Before his birthday, before Christmas hols. More than six months ago, and even then he couldn't be sure. Draco turned onto his side in frantic need and rummaged through his nightstand for the slick feel of plastic, the grainy texture of powder. 

Harry made him breakfast, bland toast and orange juice, and spooned healthy antioxidants into his mouth. Still, it took a solid week before Draco was coherent when the sun rose. He opened his eyes on the following Sunday, unable to believe that Harry was still there, not looking disgusted or ashamed, but worried, concerned. He watched carefully as Draco unstoppered a bottle of potion and downed it in one gulp. As soon as he swallowed, Harry was there, leaning into him and placing a tender kiss on his lips. 

"We'll get through this," he said, helping Draco sit up among the pillows. He moved the plate of breakfast to Draco's lap, and broke a piece of bacon in half. Handing a piece to Draco, he chewed on the other bit aimlessly. 

By the time the plate was empty, Draco felt more like himself. The chill on his arms had dissipated, and while his head was still foggy, it was more like a single rain cloud instead of a raging storm. 

Even the sky had recuperated, sending little slivers of sunshine between the slats of Draco's shades. The glimmer played off of the rim of Harry's glasses, and off of the sharp metal of his arm, casting little spots of rainbow across the empty expanse of his walls. 

Harry cast the plate aside and placed his hand against Draco's face. "Better?" he asked, a soft smile playing on his lips.

"Much."

"Good." Harry nodded happily. "Perfect timing. I've got us a Portkey."

"Mmm?" Draco raised his eyebrows as he took another sip. "Another mission for the Glass Specialist?" 

Harry chuckled. "More like dragon."

Draco almost spat out his juice. "You told? You fucker, I can't believe you—"

"Not you, Draco." Harry placed a calming hand on Draco's knee. "Me. Charlie called. Wants me to check on them."

"How are they?" Draco asked, concerned. The last time he had seen the happy thunder of dragons, the were flying off into the dark sky. He watched, holding Harry tight, until their wings were just a speck, no bigger than a distant star.

"Good," Harry smiled. "Petra–that's what they've named her–is the proud mother of a beautiful thunder of dragons."

"They all made it? They were so tiny, and it was such a long flight." Draco started to worry his lip. The last time he had asked, somewhere during his withdrawal haze, Harry hadn't heard from Charlie. 

"They all made it," Harry said with a large grin. "Took them an extra couple of days, but Charlie was able to lead them all to their new home. He says they're fine." He got up and went to Draco's closet, and began rummaging through his small collection of shirts. "If we get there soon, he says we can name them."

"Really?" 

Harry shrugged. "We helped Petra find them. He thought it would be nice if we helped name them too. And I thought it might…"

"Make me feel better?"

"Maybe." Harry winced. "Does it?"

"A little. But not if I have to wear that outfit you just picked out." Draco grimaced at the olive shirt and burgundy trousers Harry had just pulled from his closet. "Honestly, Potter, are you really blind under those sexy glasses of yours?"

"You used to hate my glasses."

"I used to hate how they hid your eyes."

"And now?"

"They're alright."

"Noted." Harry chuckled. "I have one more surprise for you before we go." He turned back to the closet and started fishing behind the organised stacks of clothes.

"I swear Potter, if you pull out another colour disaster I'll have to…what's with the box?"

In his hands, Harry held a tattered shoebox. Draco could see markings on the sides, a picture of trainers with a large number 10 in bold. "I swiped this from Dudley when I was eight years old. Hid it in the cupboard. I used to put the most random things in here." Harry chuckled before placing the old box on the bed. "Rocks and leaves I had found, the last square of quilted blanket from my parent's house. The candle Hagrid put on my cake when I was eleven."

He opened the top of the box gingerly, as if the smallest tap would split the whole thing apart. With watery eyes, Draco looked from Harry to the open box, his breath caught in his throat. 

"I know it's silly. But I didn't have much growing up, so anything that felt like mine, I treasured."

"It's not silly," Draco said softly. 

"So when I saw your box, with my name, well, I couldn't help myself. I wanted to see what you treasured." Harry paused, staring at the unveiled contents. "Turns out what you treasured was me."

Draco could only nod in agreement. He wished so much he could wipe out the past two years, his stupidity and his bad habits draining what was really important, what he really treasured. Harry was what he held most important. Somehow he had forgotten that, but now, now it was the only thing he could grasp.

"I brought this box over here a few days ago." Harry smiled. "I want to show you what I treasure, Draco."

Harry met Draco's eyes, and his stare was quiet and vulnerable, like a flower after a summer storm. He nodded again, a soft smile playing at his lips, and Harry began to pull out each item one by one.

A tiny rock made its way to the duvet. "Took this from the terrarium at the zoo when I freed the snake. Accidental magic," Harry shrugged. "Didn't even know I was speaking Parseltongue at the time."

"One of Hedwig's. Found it at the bottom of her cage after…" Harry cleared his throat as he pulled a small white feather from the box. Draco could tell he was holding back tears. 

The next item, though, made Draco laugh out loud. Harry didn't even say anything, just placed the _ Potter Stinks _ badge in his hand and gave him a smirk. 

"It still works." Draco laughed as the button changed to read _ Support Cedric Diggory–The Real Hogwarts Champion_.

"Don't doubt your skill." Harry snickered. "When Draco Malfoy puts his mind to something."

Draco grinned, but his mouth fell open in surprise as the next item was pulled from the box.

"Remember this?" Harry said, thumbing through the worn paperback. 

"I lent that to you, what, five years ago?"

"Seven." Harry brushed over the lilac cover, reading _ Hard Rain Falling_. "You said I'd like it. Cops and Robbers."

"You obviously did. It was practically new when I let you borrow it. _ Borrow _ being the key word, Potter."

"Yeah, well." Harry smiled at the book. "I couldn't. You see." He opened up to a dog-eared page. "You wrote these things in the margins. Question marks and statements about being forced into patterns, and beginning anew, just to end up in the same place."

"Waking up to find out you were still alive, and it wasn't anybody's fault but your own."

"Draco—"

"Don't tell me it wasn't my fault." Draco sighed. "Every action I did. I was a coward. I still am."

Harry shook his head. "We're all just trying. That's all we can do, is try to make ourselves be felt." He reached back into the box, and pulled out a small blue peacock, with purple and yellow feathers. "I felt you, Draco. Every day for years, I felt you."

"My peacock?" Draco reached out instinctively and pulled the glass figurine into his hand. "But I burned it."

"You burned your box, not the items still in my hands." Harry pulled a bit of parchment out last, unfolding it so his scratchy handwriting was exposed. 

_ Robards makes Umbridge look like a saint. _

"Harry," Draco said, his voice quivering.

"These used to be my treasures, Draco. But you can _ Incendio _ it too, I don't care." He carefully put each item back in the shoebox and closed the lid. "It doesn't matter, as long as I have you."

"Harry." Draco reached out, his hand trembling as he ran his fingers across Harry's cheek, wiping away the tiny droplets of tears that had gathered. "Harry." 

He'd spent the past two years missing that word, Harry's name on his tongue, and he couldn't stop himself from saying it. He also couldn't, didn't want to stop himself from pulling Harry close, and placing a searing kiss on his lips.

Draco tried to pour his feelings, his apologies for the past, his hopes for the future, into their kiss. His hands tumbled to Harry's hips, pulling him closer, needing desperately to feel every part of him.

They toppled to the bed, spread across the sheets that had just held Harry's treasures. Harry's hands moved to Draco's hair, to his neck, his mouth open as Draco worked his lips from Harry's mouth to the dip in his collarbone. 

He gasped into Harry's chest when he felt Harry's cock against his thigh, hard and wanton, and he ripped at Harry's clothes, needing every bit that separated them to be gone, gone, gone. 

Once his shirt was off, tossed haphazardly to the floor, Draco took a moment to admire Harry's bare skin, his naked chest. The fine line of hair that started between his nipples and weaved its way down his skin, to the apex of his burgeoning desire. He kissed him there, right where the trail began, and without thinking, dragged his mouth across Harry's nipple before reaching his shoulder. 

He felt Harry's arm, the one that was destroyed by his neglect, cold under his mouth. This was a part of him now, a memory, a reminder of what they had been and what they had done. Like his Sectumsempra scars, it told a tale of anger and forgiveness, of joy and pain, that brought them to where they were now: together. 

Draco brought Harry's fingers to his lips, kissing each cold pad one by one, before dragging his lips to the centre of his palm, to his wrist. Draco worked his way up Harry's arm, asking forgiveness for its necessity, worshipping that it was now a part of the man he loved. When he reached his shoulder, Draco reverently dragged his tongue across the scar that melded him together.

Harry moaned, tilting his head back as Draco continued to kiss up his neck to his jawline, before Draco threaded his hands into Harry's mess of hair and tugged, bringing their lips together again in a glorious bolt of heat.

Draco instantly got lost in their kiss, his hands frantically searching for any of Harry he could grasp. He tugged off Harry's glasses, mindlessly tossing them away, and pulled him tight to his hips, pressing their groins together in a luxurious slide of cotton and need.

He felt the cold bite of Harry's hand on his back, tugging at his shirt, while the warm heat of Draco's fingers gripped behind his neck, holding him _ still _ and _ there _ and _ rooted _ in his arms. 

Draco spelled off the rest of their clothes, relishing the fire, the heat of Harry rutting into him, his cock hard and needy and so gloriously familiar that Draco couldn't wait to hold it in his hands, to feel the weight and the security of it once again. 

It took Draco only a tap on Harry's hip before Harry was on his back, legs spread invitingly. Draco knew exactly what Harry liked, what he wanted. He started kissing him again, not back on his lips, but on the instep of his foot, the knob of his ankle, the curve of his calf. He nibbled his way up Harry's tender thigh, his ears filling with content sighs until his mouth hovered hot over Harry's need.

"Please, Draco, please," Harry moaned, his hips thrusting upwards eagerly. Draco smirked, then tongued at the head of Harry's cock before taking it deep into his mouth.

Harry bucked, and Draco had to press his hip bones into the mattress to keep him from thrashing wildly as he swallowed him down. Draco took his time, laving at the head, tracing the length of the cock he missed so much. He breathed in deeply before letting the tip hit the back of his throat.

It was a power like no other, making Harry fall apart with just the flicks of his tongue. There were times in their past where it would only take a look, a raise of eyebrows, for Harry to go weak for Draco Malfoy, and now here he was, spread across Draco's sheets, desperate for everything Draco could give him.

Draco found himself desperate as well, the taste of Harry on his tongue and the touch of his skin under his hands. He mouthed at Harry's bollocks before dragging his tongue further downward until he reached his furled hole. Harry moaned again, spreading his legs wider, his need evident in the curl of his toes and the pants of his breath.

He opened Harry up slowly, relishing every bit of him as his tongue pushed in and out of Harry's core. He thought he could have stayed like that forever, worshipping Harry, but he could feel Harry's neediness on the tip of his tongue. 

"Fill me up, Draco. Oh fuck, please," Harry cried when Draco's hand danced along his length and his tongue plunged into his hole. "I want your cock, I want it in me."

Harry begging was the most beautiful sound. Better than silence. He wasted no time conjuring lube into his palm and slathering it over himself before resting his cock right against Harry's hole. He was being greedy, he knew, but he wanted to hear it again.

"Draco," Harry whined.

"Tell me what you need."

"I need you." Harry's voice was heady. "I always need you."

Draco took a breath, and slid his slick cock into Harry's center. He could feel Harry clenching around him, and he waited just a moment for him to adjust.

"Is this what you need?" Draco asked, rubbing his calves soothingly. When he felt Harry relax, he slid in further.

"Yes, fuck yes," Harry groaned. His hands went to grip Draco's arms, fingers clenching around his biceps as Draco nudged into him further. It only took a few more thrusts before Draco was fully seated inside Harry, his own thighs trembling with the need to take him.

He pulled all the way out, Harry's ankles around Draco's shoulders and his back pressed to white sheets. "Whose hole is this?" Draco asked, before slamming back in. 

"Yours," Harry panted, arching his back into Draco's touch, his hands still gripping hard to Draco's arms.

Draco thrust in again, harder. "You're so beautiful," he said. His voice was punctuated by the rotation of his hips as he dived wildly into Harry. "So gorgeous and perfect."

"Yes, fuck." Harry's voice sounded gravely and on edge, and soon the room was just filled with the sound of Harry's desperate pleadings and slaps of skin on skin. It was perfect, Harry beneath him, clinging on as Draco gave him pleasure. His hand found Harry's cock again, and began a sweet and torturous tease along his needy length.

"So good for me." Draco leaned forward and whispered in his ear. He lapped at his lobe, at the tender skin right at the edge of his jaw. "Gods, I missed how you feel." He began to pound into Harry. The headboard rattled as he fucked into Harry over and over again. 

"Please, Draco," Harry begged. "Please, I'm so close."

"Do you want to come on my cock?" Draco teased, his hand twisting at the head of Harry's length before tugging back down. He could feel Harry tightening greedily around his length, and he knew he wouldn't last much longer.

"Yes, please, fuck," Harry grunted, his back arching in pleasure. "So close."

"Come for me, love," Draco moaned, increasing his speed in both his strokes and his thrusts.

A deep guttural moan escaped Harry's throat, and he was coming, hot streaks of his pleasure coating Draco's hand and his blissful sounds filling Draco's ear. Draco shuddered, throwing his head back as he fucked Harry through his orgasm.

Soon Draco was coming as well, spilling into Harry as his own moans filled the air. Words like 'Potter' and 'love' and 'fuck yes' erupted from his mouth as he came in euphoric waves. 

When he was spent, panting and surely a mess, Draco laid down on the soiled sheets and pulled Harry close. They were chest to chest, mouths almost touching, sharing the same breaths of pleasure as they came down from their highs.

Draco raised his eyebrow, and Harry grinned before casting a wandless and wordless Cleaning Charm over their skin and the sheets below.

"How much time do we have before the Portkey?" Draco asked, stretching his limbs over Harry's hips. 

"Enough for a kip," Harry shrugged. Draco nodded and pulled the thick duvet over their naked bodies, curling himself around his love while they drifted off to sleep.

\---

They had woken with barely enough time to yank on some clothes before the old bean can Portkey had lit green, Draco's forefinger making it to the tin before it whisked Harry and him out of the tiny flat.

Charlie greeted them at the base of the hill. Draco ran a hand through his hair, trying to pat it down and make it look a bit presentable, but the wind quickly took hold of it and tangled his locks again. 

It didn't matter. Once he got a glimpse of the sight over Charlie's shoulders, nothing else seemed to matter anyway. 

Petra was there, her grey wings tucked to her sides. The shackles were no longer around her neck, and she looked taller, prouder. Draco could feel her relief tickling his skin, her excitement and her happiness clear not only in the emotions she was pouring into Draco. Her eyes were soft, kind, and full of joy. One didn't need to be an Ingeminosensus to see that Petra was happy. Finally happy.

Three little whelps were at her taloned feet. One was stone grey, just like his mother. The other, lighter, was almost dusted yellow with orange tinges, like the first break of daylight. The third was shockingly stark white except for the tiniest little black spots running down her flank.

"Beautiful, aren't they?" Charlie smiled, staring at the thunder of dragons. Draco couldn't help but agree. "Harry told you about Petra? Named her right after we got the chains off of her. She seems to like it."

Draco nodded. The name suited her; born in stone, and now surrounded by lush grass and blue skies. 

"Ready to name the whelps?" Charlie asked. Harry threaded his hand into Draco's, as they walked steadily towards the thunder.

"You go first, Harry."

Harry squeezed Draco's hand, and Draco could feel the cold between his fingers. It was comforting, secure. Real.

"I think his name should be Puff." Harry pointed to the little grey dragon tucked under his mother's wing. He saw Draco and Charlie's confused looks. "Like Puff the Magic Dragon?"

"Never heard of it." Charlie shrugged.

"Like…a puff of smoke?"

Draco chuckled. "Puff it is."

"And this little girl?" Charlie motioned to the lighter one. "She wakes up so early in the morning, bouncy little thing."

"Why is she yellow?" Harry asked.

"We think the father might have been a Peruvian Vipertooth. We won't know until they're older, but it would account for their different colours."

"We could call her Viper?" Harry suggested.

Charlie winced. "Like naming a wee Kneazle, Tiger."

"Sunny, then?" 

Draco laughed as the tiny yellow dragon pawed into the air at a passing butterfly, and became so distracted she fell over onto her back, still fighting the butterfly-less air. 

"And this one?" Charlie pointed to the white dragon. Draco's heart tightened, and Harry squeezed his hand again. 

"You name her, Draco."

Draco nodded, and swallowed tightly before responding. "I think we should name her Plume, like a feather. Like Hedwig's feather."

Harry grasped his hand tightly. "It's perfect."

They settled into the grassy knoll, Harry's head pressed to Draco's chest, and watched as one by one the winged beasts took flight. The sky was soon filled, not with the heavy grey clouds of their past, but with the beautiful sight of a thunder of dragons. Their future never looked so bright.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! You can show your appreciation for the author in a comment below. ♥
> 
> This story is part of HD Erised, an on-going anonymous fest. The author will be revealed January 10th.


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